


My Sempai Doesn't Know I'm an Anarchist: A Problematic AF Late Stage Capitalist Tale-Cum-Shitpost

by Umechan_the_revolutionary_otaku



Category: Original Work
Genre: Detractor Fiction, M/M, Original BL, Original Bara, Satire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:53:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 25
Words: 21,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22673602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umechan_the_revolutionary_otaku/pseuds/Umechan_the_revolutionary_otaku
Summary: Neoliberal Tokyo is about to explodeAt St. Friedman’s Upper Advanced High School for Laissez-Faire Boys Sponsored by the Serotonomax Corporation, only the strong survive, and the wretched weaklings of the earth must band together in after school clubs. Kota— a lifestylist poser who has read even less theory than you— finds himself cast out into the cold when the school accuses him of using his computer club as a front for cybercrime. But even the threat of the school bullies isn’t enough to keep his eyes away from the mysterious new transfer student. Unbeknownst to him, the object of his affection harbors a secret that will forever keep them apart. But if Kota gets his way, capitalism won’t be the only thing that’s getting fucked.A post-apocalyptic political satire with elements of absurdist humor, inspired by anime such as Kekko Kamen and Osomatsu-san.
Kudos: 4





	1. Be a Tachi, Do Cybercrime Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Conquest of Moe- Our Waifus
> 
> This work was written in praise of the virtues of freedom, calling for autonomy and justice for all. It satirizes harmful tropes, while simultaneously taking advantage of them. One may wonder how anyone could in good faith call for the liberation of workers and the marginalized, while glamorizing sexual violence committed against these same people. However, as each trope, each advance, each addition to the sum of human creativity owes its being to the mental travail of the past and present, by what right can the writer appropriate the least morsel of this immense whole and say “This is mine, not yours”? 
> 
> Otaku culture has traveled far since those bygone days when fans watched blurry VHS tapes devoid of fan service on their tiny screens. Since these agitated times, which have lasted for multiple decades, Otaku have nevertheless amassed untold treasures. Resolutions have been heightened, fans have been serviced, kóhais have been noticed, and streaming services have been launched. Each new creation is a synthesis, yet they remain the exclusive domain of the few. If seminal manga artist and animator Osamu Tezuka were to present himself today in Akihabara or Den Den Town and demand his rights, he would be told “Hands off! This body pillow is not yours”, and he would be incarcerated if he attempted to take possession of it. All things must be for all people, since all people have need of it, since all people have worked in the measure of their strength to produce them. 
> 
> As we all graze on a cultural common, inheriting the artistic legacy of the past, do the readers not bare equal responsibility for contributing to a culture where problematic elements are allowed to flourish? But rather than cast blame, lets consider how our material conditions warrant such a work. Neoliberalism has seeped into every aspect of our lives, making it appear inescapable. Faced with the threats of ecological collapse, unemployment through automation, and the re-emergence of Fascism, the working class must build solidarity and class consciousness across all demographics. Theorists have longed recognized the need to raise awareness among women, members of the LGBT+ community and colonized and indigenous groups, yet one group remains sorely neglected. Who will win the support of the lumpen Fujoshi? (That’s right, fuck you, Gamers). The authoritarian left? They will reject them as bourgeois and decadent. The authoritarian right? They will gas them with the rest of the degenerates if they get their way. The libertarian right? What part of strong women who sexualize male-on-male relationships makes you think the neckbeards will have anything to do with them. The apolitical masses of the lumpen Fujoshi lie in wait. The writer has selflessly taken up the task of converting them to the ways of the radical libertarian left so that they may know that life — and man-on-man sex— will go on post-capitalism.
> 
> Long live the revolution!

“Looks like you’re all alone.”

Yosuke’s knees began to shake as Goro’s voice emerged from the pitch black hallway. He turned to find a shadowy figure standing in the doorway. The darkness obscured all but his meter long Mohawk. “The rest of my club should be here any minute.” Yosuke said.

Goro let out a deep laugh. It sent Yosuke stumbling backwards. He scraped his back against the cold steel of the sport’s equipment rack. It banged against the wall. The light bulb swung around. “Your club sold you out.” Goro said. The feint light of the bulb reflected off his sharp teeth.

“There must’ve been a mistake.” Yosuke said, cowering against the equipment rack. “They’ll be here soon.”

Goro’s footsteps echoed through the narrow equipment room. He stepped into the light. His eyes were the color of coal. His dark pupils remained dull under the bright glow. Lines ran down the cheeks of his leathery face. Further lines blemished the sides, the result of scars carved too deeply to ever heal. He flashed a menacing grin, brandishing the knife edges of his teeth. “No one else is coming.” 

Yosuke’s emaciated body withered away in the presence of Goro’s towering stature. Even his rotund, proportionally larger stomach failed to harden his feeble appearance. His slender arms and legs resembled twigs stuck into the body of a fat snowman.

Goro’s footsteps rippled through the room. Searing pain gripped Yosuke as he took a blow to the stomach. It pierced his insides, throwing him to the floor in agony. Goro stood over his incapacitated body. “I think it’s about time for your club to be officially disbanded.” He lifted Yosuke up him from the floor and dragged him into the doorway. His fist slammed against the sign, splitting it in half. The first half fell on its edge, slashing Yosuke’s ear. The second fell flat across his head. The pain burned like a branding iron.

Goro kicked Yosuke’s limp body back into the room. The metal bolt of the lock clunked. Yosuke’s heart raced. With Yosuke’s club in ruins, surely he was no longer of use to him. The cold metal of Goro’s zipper clashed against its teeth. It tore through Yosuke’s eardrums as it loosened. Goro’s cotton slacks flapped in the air. They hit the ground with a thud as they dropped to his ankles. 

Goro lurched forward and clasped his hands around Yosuke’s head. He resisted. Goro dug his fingernails into his scalp. The rubbery surface of his foreskin rubbed against Yosuke’s cheeks. He tightened his grip. The pain drilled into Yosuke’s head. Goro’s foreskin wiped itself across the tip of his tongue. Goro yanked him in with one final tug. Tears formed in Yosuke’s eyes as he choked on Goro’s girth.

Goro loosened his grip. He caressed Yosuke’s head with his fingertips. “Find the doctor you deserve, with health insurance from Kenko Daimax. Our skilled medical professionals treat all conditions, from cuts to bone fractures.”

Kota walked through the cold, dark hallway. A mysterious whimpering whistled down his ears. It got louder as he approached the volleyball club’s equipment room. He reached out for the door but stopped himself before he could open it. The principal had insisted that they meet first thing in the morning, and he did not have a reputation as a reasonable man. The room could have been on fire, but it still would not have been an adequate excuse for lateness.

Kota’s toes smashed against a solid piece of wood. He hesitated for a moment before pushing on towards the principal’s office. It weighed down on him, but suspicious and bizarre events were commonplace at St. Friedman’s Upper Advanced High School for Laissez-Faire Boys Sponsored by the Serotonomax Corporation. The most suspicious of which had been the opening to this story, curiously written from the perspective of a minor character. Kota however was a dirty fucking communist, so when he stepped out of his dorm that morning to find a horde of snarky conservatives demanding that he share ninety percent of his scene— or else be branded a hypocrite— it was only natural that he had found himself unable to muster up a response other than “Damn. The political ideology understanders have arrived. Communist destroyed.” Following this declaration of defeat, the angry mob claimed ownership of the scene and gave it to a character who would produce nothing of value to the narrative— just as Karl Marx had intended.


	2. Be a Tachi, Do Cybercrime Part Two

The bright lights of the waiting room dazzled Kota as he entered. He moved to the far corner and sat down. His shirt buttons gave way to his bulging belly, struggling to keep itself from bursting open. His undershirt peered out from the gaps between the buttons. His navy blue blazer hung over him like a tent. The contours of his body warped the white lines that interlaced it. 

The clock on Kota’s wristband turned to the appointed time. His eyes wandered through the room as he waited. A table sat in the center holding pamphlets about the dangers of collectivism and the information about Gamer’s rights. Posters aligned the pristine plaster walls of the room. The most prominent of which depicted the spirit of individuality, a muscular man with a heaving chest and bulging biceps, crushing political correctness with the hammer of liberty. Another sign declared the school a bully-free-free zone. 

The strands of Kota’s voluminous hair tickled his cheek. He molded it with his hands and pushed it behind his ears. It sprung back, thwarting his attempt to look smart and respectable. The strands of his milk chocolate colored hair, sprinkled with flecks of caramel brown, obscured his vision. He brushed it away. Kota’s hair didn’t take well to formal meetings. Its wild nature earned him the disdain of his teachers, who sported shorter, more professional hairstyles. It did however earn him the muted admiration of his peers. His hair, combined with his curvy figure, enticed his fellow students, most of whom were sex starved from having never seen a real woman before. The soft features of his face further added to his appeal. His high cheekbones lifted any excess flesh, giving his meaty face the illusion of slenderness.  
As time passed, it seemed more and more unlikely that the principal was going to show up. Kota rested his head against the wall. He shut his tired eyes. The sound of the flickering light bulb faded away. His stiff arms loosened as he sunk into his chair. The room snapped back into view as he smacked his head against the backrest. Kota shifted about in his chair and straightened his back.

The principal remained shut off in his office. Kota grabbed the note paper from the table and wrote a message. “It appears that you had much more pressing matters to attend to, so I went back to class.” He left it on the tabled and walked towards the exit. The mahogany doors to the principal’s office slid open. Kota turned around to find the principal casting a disapproving look over him. His eyes bulged out from their sockets. 

Kota entered the office on the principal’s orders. The warmth of the fireplace wrapped itself around his body. The room’s color scheme featured shades of leather brown ranging from dark to tan, a sophisticated color palette very much in tune with the principal’s conservative tastes. The air filtration system released an alpine scent that would have complemented the wooden decor if it weren’t so overpowering. Feint traces of a pungent odor remained, largely drowned out by the strong fragrance. The principal’s sagging cheeks drooped down, cushioning his jawline. Deep lines formed between them. Despite his elderly appearance, he had the hair of a much younger man. Although lacking in color, not a centimeter a pink flesh peered out from behind his white cotton candy hair.

Kota settled into the seat opposite the principal. As he sat down, the soft leather sunk into the lines of his body, molding itself around his back. Fur adorned the armrests. He pressed his arm against them. It sunk between his fingers, caressing his skin. A tickling sensation spread through his body. Its luxuriant softness was unlike anything he had experienced.

“We summoned you here today so that we could ask you some questions about your computer club.” Principal Budohara said. His loose cheeks rustled as he talked. “What exactly is the purpose of your club?”

“Just the typical things that computer clubs do.” Kota said, avoiding eye contact, “We build computers and learn how to use different software.”

“Why the interest in computers? Our students have no need for such antiquated technology.” the principal said.

“We may no longer have any need to use them personally, but computers hide behind every facet of modern life.” Kota shifted his focus to the bookshelf located behind the principal’s desk. Works from prominent Libertarian thinkers lined the shelf. He grinned to himself. “The architects of our society knew full well of the importance of technology. IT is the domain of the producers. One cannot begin to understand the greatness of our civilization without a firm grasp of IT.” The principal gripped his leather armrest as if it were the neck of his greatest enemy. It squealed . He often talked of the greatness of producers and how their discoveries made life better for us all, but what had he actually achieved? His aversion to technology had once lead to him collapsing in his office. His neurological interface failed following a power cut, leaving him trapped. Lacking the skills and knowledge to manually rotate the door lock, he had no choice but to wait for help, which came days after he had passed out from malnutrition. The absurdity of this incident was further punctuated by the fact that a week previously he had given a speech to members of a conservative think tank, in which he asserted that society bore no responsibility to feed those who cannot feed themselves. Whatever this man did to earn his place in society remained to be seen.

The principal sat in silence, unequipped to answer such a thinly veiled personal attack. It all made perfect sense to Kota. The principal’s elderly appearance was a clear sign that he had been born in the era of widespread automation. The truth was not widely known about them, but Kota had learned of their secrets in a bootlegged history book. Recently perfected Neural Control Interface technologies had opened them up to a world of technology freed from the shackles of Graphical User Interfaces. Spoiled by these exciting new developments, they refused to return to primitive touch screens, or even less invasive voice control interfaces. Although mocked by their seniors as technically inept, some clung to the libertarian tech bro ideologies of the past, never reconciling them with their place in history as the generation who were literally too lazy to lift a finger. The vein on the principal’s forehead poked out, a clear indication of his conflicted values.

“I would still urge you to consider finding a pastime more appropriate for a future member of liberal society such as yourself.” the principal said, breaking the awkward silence. “You should consider your grades before you spread out to such esoteric pursuits. Computer skills are not in demand as they once were.” He reached for the drawers and grabbed a small, rectangular device. The device emitted a blinking light. A layer of transparent plastic covered the black glass surface. Kota held his wristband to the device as instructed by the principal. The light turned solid. The device projected Kota’s personal data. “As you can see, you’ve been getting Cs across the board. You’re going to have to try a lot harder if you ever want to succeed here. This is your third year in the upper second grade. Don’t you ever worry about your future? God knows where you’d be if your sponsor weren’t so understanding.”

Kota swirled his fingers around in the fur armrest. “I’m not so worried about it. Most of my classmates are approaching their tenth year and getting Es.” He lifted his head away from the chair. “And the whole concept of grades always struck me as a cultural Marxist ploy. If I’m performing well in the marketplace of academic achievements, then there’s no need to obsess over the value of my grade.” Kota flashed a smug grin. “That would be as pointless as obsessing over the distribution of wealth.” The principals leather chair screeched. “And I say this because I understand that overall, the system is fair. If it weren’t possible for anyone to succeed, then I would begin to suspect that the system had been rigged against us. Thank god that’s not happening here.”

The principal clenched his jaw. “Well, moving on, I’d like to speak to you about the security breach at the CIA”.

“Fine, but I don’t know anything about that.” Kota said, running his hand through the fur. It sunk between it, disappearing like an animal through thick jungle foliage. 

“Well, they contacted us last month to say that hackers infiltrated their systems and stole several terabytes of data.” the principal said. The bristles rubbed against Kota’s skin, smothering him with its gentle warmth, a feeling sorely absent outside of the principal’s personally cultivated space. The principal started to clear his throat. “Their investigations tracked the source of the attack back to us.“ Kota ran his fingertips through the strands from top to bottom.

“Anyone tech-savvy enough to hack the CIA could fake their location. They’re going to have to do better than that.” Kota said.

The principal’s nails scraped against the leather. “Given the severity of this crime, we agreed to hand over your equipment.”

Kota looked up from his chair and grinned. “I think you’ll find that I paid for the computer equipment myself.”

“I won’t hear of any of your excuses. This is a serious crime. We must cooperate with the authorities.”

“This is an act of violence against my property.” Kota said. The principal’s jaw dropped. “You should know better than to cower to big government.” His eyes popped out. “The state is an instrument of violence that exists solely to drain the blood of the producers through taxation and redistribute them to the idle.” Kota leaned forward and slapped his open palms against the desk. “In fact, my good sir, I would go as far as to say that their demands go as far as to break the Non-Aggression Principle.” Kota’s voice blew over the principal, sweeping his hair back. “The very same principle that by virtue of which we have founded our school, which he hold so dear. So I shall in fact say to you, my good sir, that they must not tread on us.” He said, delivering his speech with the sincerity of a conservative politician whose less than stellar performance in the polls had reduced them to campaigning in a racially-diverse, working class neighborhood.

The principle grinded his teeth. His face resembled an Umeboshi, the Japanese pickled plum known for its wrinkly surface and distinct redness. “Very well,” he said, “then I shall inform them that we won’t be proceeding with their request for the time being.” He stood up from his desk. “We shall be conducting our own internal investigation, so in the meantime, we’ll have to suspend your club’s activities.” He stood over Kota, glaring down at him with his arms folded. His bulging eyes pressed against his oval glasses. The lenses amplified the intensity of his stare. “I’d suggest you use your new found leisure time to work on raising your grades and to reflect on your place within this school.” He Turned his back to him. Kota ran his hands through the fur one last time before leaving. The principal’s slouched back disappeared as the doors closed. 


	3. Be a Tachi, Do Cybercrime Part Three

Kota stepped out into the hallway. He choked as the stagnant air hit the back of his throat. He turned the corner into the second grade wing, now in clear sight as the lights emitted a weak glow. It sank deep into the holes in the wooden flooring. He stepped past the after school club equipment rooms. Meters of tape wrapped itself around the cracks in the doors. A block of wood started to give way as the frayed ends of the tape loosened its grip on the door. Kota patted it down with his hands. It wobbled like a loose jigsaw piece as his hands pressed against it.

Kota climbed the stairs. The second floor had been damaged just as badly as the first. A patch of rotten wood ate away at the flooring. Green mold lay across it. The condition of each floor grew marginally better as he went upwards. He stepped out onto the sixth floor hallway. His feet scraped across the gritty floorboards. Dust clung to the surface of the concrete walls. 

Kota slid the classroom door open, revealing the curious faces of his classmates. “Good morning, Kota.” Shigino-sensei said, breaking away from his lecture mid-sentence. His receding hairline formed the inner curve of a crescent moon. “I trust that your meeting with Principal Budohara was a productive one. Now please sit down.” His gaping mouth opened further as he spoke. His glassy eyes focused on the far distance. 

Kota moved to the back of the room. The peering eyes of his classmates followed him. He maneuvered through the tight space between the other student’s desks, taking great care to avoid the holes in the floor’s wooden panels. The concrete walls of the room had been painted a pale shade of yellow. They hid beneath layers of dirt that had been built up over the course of decades of neglect. Coupled with these patches of dirt, the walls resembled a Pastel de Nata, albeit an unappetizing one. Kota had of course never eaten one, but it had been one of the many things he had learned about Portugal while studying its place in the illustrious history of mercantile capitalism. His history teacher told him how Hong Kong and Macau were so enthralled by this new western treat that they adopted it into their local cuisine in the form of egg tarts— a perfect example of how the superior culture of western civilization found acceptance without the use of force. Kota sat down in his chair. The harsh wood pressed against his back.

“The benefits are astounding.” Shigino-sensei said. His glassy eyes widened as he spoke. “Mounting evidence has overturned a century of misinformation.” His speech exuded confidence, yet his slouching posture exhibited the body language of a man defeated. “It has coincided with an increase in vegetation.” His feeble presence clashed with the certainty of his words, which he asserted as empirical facts whenever challenged by his students. “Over the last century, we have witnessed record levels of global greening.” 

Deku caught Kota’s attention. He sat four seats away from him. He gritted his teeth as he listened to Shigino-sensei’s lecture. “Decades of scaremongering from well-funded conspiracists were overwhelmingly proven false.” Shigino-sensei said. Deku curled his lips. “And now they have rightfully receded into the margins.” Deku clasped his hands to his trembling mouth as if he were going to vomit. It was a perfectly understandable reaction. Kota may have done the same if he had ever taken the teacher’s lectures seriously. It was still unfortunate to see such an attractive man contort his face in disgust. His dark chestnut hair curved around his slender neck. It parted from the sides, resting its ends on his defined cheek bones. It had been cut to the perfect length where it would always appear immaculately styled despite male grooming products being in short supply. His elegant skin tone, milky with a hint of espresso, was a rare sight among his classmates.

Kota grew equally tired of the lecture. His desktop interface sat in front of him. He made notes of keywords Shigino-sensei had peppered throughout his talk. Having written reminders of each of them, Kota sank back into the mist of his own thoughts, content that he could put together a quick explanation if Shigino-sensei suspected that he hadn’t been paying attention. Kota reflected on his meeting. A few regrets came to mind. Kota had worked very hard to buy the equipment for his club. He couldn’t deny that it had all been worth it, but still, his equipment would have to rot away unused in the now out of bounds club room, as nowhere else housed the appropriate power outlets.

More mundane thoughts crossed his mind. He had to keep himself occupied. The school thugs would no doubt be waiting for the chance to pounce on him now that he was vulnerable. He would also have free evenings once again. Maybe it was finally time to tackle the pile of books he had waiting for him in his room.


	4. Be a Tachi, Do Cybercrime Part Four

The bell rang. The students stood up to thank the teacher. They filed out of the room row by row. Kota followed the line of students. They merged with the other classes in the hallway. They walked up the stairway in unison. Kota followed them to the cafeteria on the ninth floor. The students lined up to collect their lunch trays and dispersed, eager to break away from the formality of lectures and socialize with their chosen group of friends.

The soft lighting of the cafeteria shone against the metal surface of the tables and benches. Although the odd scratch marked the tables, any traces of debris or stains had been removed. Despite its spartan atmosphere, Kota looked forward to relaxing here whenever he faced a challenging lecture. 

Kota grabbed his tray. It contained a meager serving of rice, chilled tofu, simmered chicken and miso soup. The smell of fermented beans rose up his nostrils. He surveyed the edge of the dining area and made his way to the table where Futsujiro sat. Otohiko stampeded past him. His short hair clinged tightly to his scalp. Kota stepped out of his way. The harsh features of Otohiko’s square face hid his emotions. His eyes were set straight ahead. The chrysanthemum crest and other imperial regalia from the previous era ran down his blazer. With the path cleared, Kota approached the table.

“What was his problem?” Futsujiro said. His flat fringe hugged his forehead.

Kota sat down. “I don’t know. Maybe he finally found a lead for his quest to find the heir to Amy Terasu.” He brushed off a patch of miso he found splashed onto his blazer.

Futsujiro took a mouthful of chicken. The cheeks of his round face bulged out as he chewed. “So what happened at your meeting?” Kota’s bulky figure dwarfed his slender frame.

“They suspended my club. They didn’t even have any evidence. How could they do that?” Kota asked.

“Well, what else would you expect after everything you did?” Futsujiro said.

Kota rolled his eyes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. And furthermore, my good sir, I must in fact tell you that any rumors you may have heard, regardless of how valid their claims may seem, are in fact false.”

Futsujiro shook his head. “Shut the fuck up Kota-sensei.”

Kota’s sudden shift in tone had struck a nerve with Futsujiro. Futsujiro’s inadherence to the conventions of language was however equally grating to Kota, a true connoisseur of language. The honorific ‘sensei’ was to be used only with a person’s family name, which Kota— being the upper advanced high school student that he was— had not gained possession of. If he worked hard, they day would come when he would finally earn one. Until that day, he would be known simply as ‘Kota 8689’. It was this four digit number that distinguished him from the 10’000 other Kotas, all of whom paid monthly royalties to the person who held the rights to their name— whose creativity they had all leached from.

The chime played to signal an incoming broadcast from the Tannoy system. The principal’s smoky voice echoed through the cafeteria. “Good afternoon students. It has recently been brought to my attention that a number of windows in the staff wing have been repeatedly broken. Our investigations have lead us to believe that there are anarchists operating within our school. Once the culprits have been identified, and they surely will be, they will face severe punishment.” 

Kota shoveled the remaining half of his lunch into his mouth, chewing it like a squirrel. It lacked texture, disintegrating upon contact with his teeth. The taste too left a poor impression. It had no distinctive flavor other than the saltiness of the soy sauce that had graced his taste buds with its presence each meal that term. “Students should be aware that they are not to enter the staff wing without prior authorization. I would also like to use this opportunity to remind all students that anarchists, socialists, communists and national socialists are not welcome at St. Friedman’s Upper Advanced High School for Laissez-Faire Boys Sponsored by the Serotonomax Corporation. At this school, we respect the liberty and free speech of each individual, regardless of their politics. For this reason, we do not welcome leftists, whose sole aim is to spread censorship and curtail individual liberty. Any leftists should be reported to a teacher. That is all.”

Futsujiro cowered down and leaned in towards Kota. “Do you really think there are anarchists here?” he asked, “This place is dangerous enough without adding a bunch of scary terrorists in to the mix.”

Kota tapped his hands on the table. “Calm down. None of the teachers know what they’re talking about.”

“I hope so.” Futsujiro said, letting out a sigh.

Kota took a swig from his glass of water. “And everything you’ve heard is bullshit too. Breaking windows is actually a very minor aspect of anarchism.” Kota downed the rest of the water and slammed the empty glass on the table. “Punching cops and setting things on fire play a much greater role within the philosophy. Out of the combined works of Proudhon, Kropotkin, Bakunin, Goldman, Parsons and Chomsky, how many books are there about smashing windows? Two at the most by my count.” Kota pushed his glass back and forth against the table. “And people always forget about all of the books prominent distributist G K Chesterton wrote about throwing bricks through windows. He loved that shit.” Kota put his glass back onto his tray. “Anarchism doesn’t have a monopoly on breaking windows.”

“How come you know so much about anarchism?” Futsujiro asked, with raised eyebrows.

Kota sighed. “Because unlike you, the teachers, and everyone else here, I’m not afraid of ideas. When you’re as rational as I am, you don’t have to straw man other ideologies because you’re too afraid to engage with them.”

“I really do wish there were communists around school. I’d like to see another red scare like in the good ol’ days.” Kanto grinned at Kota and Futsujiro from the next table. His body was a thick slab of meat dressed in a school uniform. The rigid lines of his figure appeared dense and free of curves and flab. His face contrasted this with the chubby cheeks and innocent curls of a cherub. He cut a mouthful from his steak and chomped on it.

“That’s not funny. Communists are a serious threat to us all.” Aisuke sat next to Kanto. He paired his buttoned up shirt with an unnecessary business formal tie. The clumps of his oily hair lay comatose on his head, beaten into submission by his grooming routine. His clean cut look showed the world that he possessed the style and rebel soul of a missionary. “Under communism, the government will stick your toothbrush up their ass and masturbate while they watch you brush your teeth with the contents of their rectum.” He turned back to his plate and cut a thin slice from his pork chop. He fed it into his petite mouth. It could have been Kota’s imagination, but Aisuke’s face appeared to shrink in size as the look of intensity grew stronger.

Kanto shook his head in incredulity. “But who’s gonna pay for that?” Aisuke spat out his pork. They let out a roar of laughter. The surrounding tables joined in. Their chuckling filled the cafeteria, bouncing off the walls and metal benches. The rowdy laughter faded as people grew bored and returned to eating their lunch. Kanto’s table returned to their personal chit-chat. The students started to trickle out after a few minutes. Kanto and the others cleared their trays. They left their table, walking in Kota’s direction towards the exit.

Motoyuki, who had been sitting with his back to Kota, came walking behind Aisuke. The dark locks of his hair curled upwards, forming a black puff of smoke. His vacant expression showed no readable emotion.

Behind Motoyuki stood a truly spectacular man. Time stopped for Kota as their eyes met. The man’s unfamiliar presence drew him in and sent waves of pleasure pulsing through his body. His warm yet austere charcoal eyes emitted a pure glow. The simple yet elegant lines that outlined his body basked in the softness of the light. He had the innocence of a child’s drawing, because, not to put too fine a point on it, that is exactly what he was.


	5. The Hard Left Part One

It was a sight like no other. A being of pure innocence and beauty baring his soul to the world. But it made perfect sense to Kota. He had of course come to learn that media is problematic. No individual is immune to its influence. It shapes our thoughts and desires. Its dissemination gives birth to cultural hegemonic images of perfection through common tropes. Tropes that, although not explicitly created to cause harm, often reinforce harmful thinking, idolize unattainable perfection, and promote a limited definition of masculinity. But Kota was a free-thinking rebel who took shit from no one. No third rate, amateur excuse for a writer was in any position to dictate his wildest desires. 

Kota wept, moved by the decision to respect his autonomy rather than leverage a coercive top-down hierarchy to assert the biases of the writer or society as a whole.   
The editor, however, just didn’t get it. They found it “unrelatable”, and warned that it would “break immersion”. Despite convincing arguments about how representations of gay men in media often replicate dated and toxic gender norms, they insisted on discussing it with a focus panel. 

After holding the panel, which featured a cultivated group of participants who were just as dense as they were, the editor delivered a report that unexpectedly confirmed their own biases. The participants “couldn’t connect with the love interest”, and some went as far to comment that it came off as “a bunch of post-modern SJW bullshit”. The report continued with increasingly harsh criticisms of the love interest and personal attacks against the writer. One participant, an eighteen to twenty-five year old bear lover, speculated that “maybe the writer is too insecure to see the protagonist lust after a real man”, like a twat. Another, a twenty-five to thirty-five year old twink lover, foolishly commented that the writer “comes off as a bit of an Incel”. The report concluded with a profile of the ideal love interest based on a detailed analysis of the participant’s preferences. So with the intervention of the invisible hand of the free market, the writer took a swig from a bottle of shochu and set to work on revising the ending for the last chapter, but kept the last few paragraphs in the draft out of spite.

The mysterious man came into view as Motoyuki passed by. Kota’s eyes were drawn to his dense chunk of a meaty body. They swept over every inch of firm muscle and bulky flab. Each inch, from his hulking biceps, to his protruding belly cushioned by layers of soft flesh atop lean mass, appeared meticulously designed for Kota’s pleasure, but that should have come as a surprise to absolutely fucking no one. After all, Kota’s free will could have done little more than bend to the needs of the narrative. A far more noteworthy insight was that of a random chubby chaser who commented that “His belly is a perfect semi-circle, like a champagne coupe. I just want to poke and prod it, and oil it up.” More than ninety-five percent of the bear lovers and chubby chasers agreed, and gave his belly an average score of 9.8 out of 10. 

His sixpack inexplicably jutted out from beneath his shirt and won the approval of the muscle queens, seventy five percent of which agreed that his abs, bulging biceps, and overall masculine appearance made up for his excess body fat. 

Kota’s eyes worked their way up his body and rested upon his face, a perfect match for his manly physique. Each strand of his spiked hair and bristle of his beard was trimmed to perfection. The under thirties rated his groomed appearance highly. The older participants had more conservative tastes, but still found it charming. One participant, a forty-five to fifty-five year old bear lover commented “His hair is a little flashy, but it’s short enough for me.” 

The love interest walked by. The back of Kota’s neck twitched. His lips contorted into a grin. His shifting stare drifted sideways. He stole a glance of him from behind before snapping back into place to avoid suspicion. His ass bulged out from underneath his solid block of a back. His tight slacks hugged his shapely curves. One participant, a twenty-five to thirty-five year old chubby chaser, commented that his slacks made it “look like two plump, juicy cantaloupes carried in a canvas bag”.

The love interest’s footsteps faded away. After a moment of quiet contemplation, Kota’s attention turned inward. His fickle emotions waxed and waned, shifting from one feeling to another. First, he sympathized with the Fujoshi, who appeared to have been abandoned in favor of the core audience of gay males who prefer traditionally masculine presenting men, along with any male readers who prefer a more slender male figure. He shed a tear for them, but was overcome by optimism. He had a hunch that the Fujoshi and twink lovers would be rewarded if they just kept reading. 

Kota retreated deeper into his thoughts, enthralled by this unfamiliar new face. He had witnessed a man whose mere existence— like an entry-level position that required five year’s experience in a four year old programming language— defied logic, reason, and material reality itself. How could such a man exist? Could it have been that by commodifying art— the purest expression of human experience— and sacrificing it to the hordes of market trends, artists destroy the very authenticity that they intended to capture? The mind of a consumer is a whimsical, irrational beast. Chasing after its insatiable desires— themselves shaped by the media we consume— is an unending battle. And as our animal urges drive us to consume more and more, tearing us away from the harsh realities of our world, the creeping chill of alienation eats away at us. Kota showed no concern for these issues, but perhaps he should have given it more thought. Perhaps we all should.

The school bell rang, wakening Kota from his deep trance. He rushed back to class, late for his next lecture. Ichikawa-sensei was not impressed with Kota’s poor punctuality. He gave Kota two video assignments as punishment. Although this did not bother him at first, he became annoyed after being tasked with writing reports for each video.


	6. The Hard Left Part Two

Kota spaced out the second his back hit the stiff wooden chair. The lesson passed by like a blur. Thoughts kept popping up into his head. That protruding belly. It was the kind he liked the most. It looked rotund, yet firm. The head of his erect penis pushed against his zipper. The teeth ate into his urethra, causing his thighs to spasm. Ichikawa-sensei’s outline traipsed through the room. Kota took in only a few seemingly unrelated words, mentions of “responsibility”, “collectivism” and “it’s soft”.

The bell rang. The class stood up to thank the teacher, then filed out of the room. Kota remained behind and opened the first video on his desktop interface. Once again, he lacked the energy to engage with them. Thoughts of the love interest’s ass lingered on in his mind as the video played on and came to a close. He clicked on the replay button, having taken in very little of its content. He turned on the subtitles. His eyes followed the onscreen text in time with the audio. It was enough to keep his mind from straying. Kota pushed through. Before long, he had finished both videos and started on the reports. Fortunately for him, the videos lacked subtlety, allowing him to quickly cotton on to the teacher’s desired conclusion. 

The room had already turned dark by the time Kota powered down his desktop interface. He let out a yawn as he slid out into the hallway. Many things were weighing down on him, so he walked around the school to clear his mind. He wandered up the stairs and bumped into Futsujiro on the seventh floor, already out of his uniform and changed into shorts and a polo shirt. He would have been better off not knowing, but Kota couldn’t help but ask about the new student. He stumbled in his words, failing to utter a complete sentence, but Futsujiro appeared to understand. Many rumors about him had spread through the school. His name was Tsuguhiro. He had transferred into the intermediate third grade at the start of the year, immediately drawing the ire of many of his classmates. Transfer students were incredibly rare, particularly in a year when many had been expelled without notice. Kanto took a liking to him despite the controversy and invited him into his group of friends. 

Futsujiro left for the gym, leaving Kota alone with only the persistent stare of the security cameras. The mumbled whispers from the dorm rooms tempered the silence. They began to fade, giving way to bitter silence broken only by the swirling thoughts in his head. Although his eyelids began to weigh down on him, his thoughts would have certainly kept him awake long into the night, and a solitary evening of reading didn’t seem so appealing. He stared into the security camera. Its red light beamed at him from across the hallway, a sign of the secret companion who laid in hiding. 

With nowhere better to go, Kota walked up to the eighth floor. The narrow corridors wrapped around the building. His footsteps echoed through the dark hallway as he approached the door to the third grade wing. He froze up as he reached for the door. For all the thoughts he had dedicated to him, what did he actually have to say to Tsuguhiro? With no useful information or connections to exploit, his mind went blank. He began to tremble as he pictured the suspicious glares of his seniors. He had no right to be there.

Kota stepped away. Needing something to distract him, he headed back downstairs. The warmth returned to his body as he entered the protective gaze of the security cameras, letting him know that he was not truly alone. He gripped his hands around the cold metal and opened the door to his dorm. His untamed mind dredged up erotic images of Tsuguhiro from the depths of his psyche as he entered. Tsuguhiro stood before him in a rokushaku fundoshi, a traditional Japanese loincloth that offered only the most modest protection from the cold air. His bulging crotch stood out like a tent pole, pushing the tight loincloth to its limits. It receded inward, revealing a patch of his pubic hair. The thin rolls of cloth at his rear sat sandwiched between his meaty buttocks. It sank between them as he moved. 

Kota slammed the door shut, regaining focus and forcing the earthly desires from this thoughts. He couldn’t trust himself to be left alone, He pivoted away from his dorm room and headed down the hallway. The door to the innermost dorm swung open as he approached. Deku emerged from it, clutching a scientific journal and a pile of other books. He walked past with his eyes set on the floor, refusing to share a single word with Kota or acknowledge his presence. Kota approached the dorm and grabbed onto its bronze doorknob. He turned it to the right, to the left, then another 360 degrees to the right. The door clicked. A panel at the top of the brass slab came loose, revealing a button. Upon pressing it,the doorknob pulled away to reveal a number pad. Kota input the code and entered the dorm.


	7. The Hard Left Part Three

The creaking floorboards echoed throughout the room with each step Kota took. Scratches marked the wooden flooring. The stained walls bore signs of the life it had previously contained, victims of the strict evaluation criteria the school had adopted that year. Kota made his way to the room on the far end. 

“Evening, Kota. How are you? Ya look well.”

Kota tiptoed around the cluttered bedroom, carefully maneuvering between the piles of cardboard boxes. Stacks of books sat misaligned on the floor. Discarded cardboard boxes fashioned into make-shift bookcases dotted the room. “Good enough I suppose.” Kota said.

Dafu Boy stood in the corner, leaning against the wall. It wasn’t his real name, it was simply an alias he earned through his reputation as a seller on the black market. He wore a long, hooded coat that weighed down his back with python-like girth, forcing his back into a slouching posture. The hood cast a shadow over his face, hiding it from potential traitors. 

“Whatcha buyin’ today?” Dafu Boy spoke in a faux-foreign accent. Kota had been introduced to him through his friend Jun, whose unexplained disappearance at the end of the previous term still baffled him. Jun had shared the rumors he had heard of Dafu Boy. They said he had been repeating the first grade for decades. Some even insinuated that the fat profit margins of the black market had driven him to bribing the faculty to keep his grades low and delete any suspicious security camera footage. “Actually, before we get down to business, I have a bit of a confession to make. I’ve been sayin’ to my connections ‘Ma mate Kota loves this whole computer stuff. Programmin’, Hackin’, Photo Editin’, the lot. Can’t ya help a mate out?’, but truth be told, it looks like things are little thin on the ground on the whole IT front as of late.”

“Never mind. It looks like I’ll have to do without computers for a while anyway.”

“Oh, now that is a shame. But anyway, still nice to see ya here. I always appreciate your patronage. I hope you enjoy the new premises. It’s much of an improvement over the last. Take a look around why don’t you. It’s only the premier collection of golden age works of art and science you’ll find this side of the apocalypse.” Mass expulsion had proven profitable to some. Dafu Boy had previously run his marketplace by stuffing goods into the inner pockets of his mammoth-sized jacket. The memories of Kota’s first encounter with Dafu remained as vivid as ever. Upon venturing into the damp storage room on the 5th floor, Dafu Boy ripped apart his Jacket, holding it open with his arm extended, inviting Kota to browse his wares.

Kota browsed the books on one shelf. The flap at the top featured the word ‘Politics’ written with a thick marker pen. “I see the old political science section caught your eye. Some anti-capitalist theory no doubt. I don’t see the appeal of it myself, but if it keeps me in business, who am I to complain?” Dafu Boy said. Kota picked up a weighty hardback book. It’s suede-colored binding featured a spine as thick as his wrist. “You know me. I never saw eye to eye with the old geezer who runs this place, but when it comes to the free market, I’m with him 100%.” Kota placed the book back on the shelf, and took another. “Doesn’t matter if our ISP decides to block unauthorized news. A wheeler-dealing entrepreneur such as myself is bound to spring up and offer you all the forbidden knowledge you’re looking for.”

Kota approached Dafu Boy with a book in hand. “If you agree with him so much, how about I go and tell him about the successful enterprise you’re running on his premises? I’m sure he’ll want to congratulate you.”

Dafu Boy’s eye’s darted towards him. The red hues of his stare beamed out from the darkness of his hood. He stabbed his finger in Kota’s direction “Oi ...Oi. Now you listen here ...” He shook his head and eased up his hand. “That’s exactly what I like about you Kota. Your quick wit and cheeky sense of humor.” He dropped his arms back to his hips, returning to his regular posture. “But listen, I’d love to be honest with em, but y’know what they’re like. A bunch of hypocrites, the lot of em. They can’t stand to see their students succeed unless there’s summat in it for them.” The tattered sleeve of the book nibbled on Kota’s fingertips. Its red wine banner wrapped itself around the cream colored sleeve. It gave a satisfying sense of heft when he held it in one hand. He handed it over to Dafu Boy.

“Excellent choice sir. That’ll be 50 credits.”


	8. The Hard Left Part Four

Kota headed back to his dormitory. The wooden planks of the floor had taken a greater beating than those in Dafu Boy’s shop, but the common room still managed to fill him with a greater sense of comfort thanks to the low lying kotatsu table in the center. He would often sit there and chat with his dorm mates on cold days. Although the softness of its quilt covering and the mat it lay on paled in comparison to that of the fur that aligned the seats in the principal’s office, it never the less continued to sooth his tired body after an eventful day. He had contributed a month’s worth of credits towards the mat, and two towards the table, but it had been worth it to be greeted with this sight each time he returned to the safety of the dorm common room.

Deku entered the dorm from behind Kota. Water dripped from his hair onto the towel hanging off his shoulders. “I never expected to see you at Dafu Boy’s.” Kota said. Deku gave him a bemused stare then went back on his way. “That’s no place for such a well-behaved boy as yourself. Aren’t you worried about the teachers finding out?”

Deku turned away from the entrance to his room. “I’ve come to realize that the opinions of the teachers are of little importance. And although you may visit his marketplace in search of punk rock and pornography, I do so to find a real education.“ Deku’s unwavering voice came as a surprise to Kota. His slight demeanor and gentle body language was suggestive of a feint, stuttering tone. 

Kota laughed. “Oh, I see what you mean. The teachers are all full of shit, aren’t they?”

Deku rolled his eyes. “Well.... Those aren’t quite the words that I would use, but yes, yes they are.” He turned back towards his room. “Now if only I didn’t have to waste so much of my reading time on those news articles they keep sending me.”

“I might be able to help you with that.” Kota said. Deku came to a halt. “I normally wouldn’t share this with one of the teacher’s pets, but now I know you’re not as obedient as you look.”

Kota lead Deku into his room, where they could speak without fear of being overheard. The folds of the tatami mat caressed Kota’s feet as he stepped in, releasing the scent of soft rush into the air. Tensions lifted from his chest each time he was greeted by this earthy fragrance. Deku craned his head, staring at the many objects that cluttered Kota’s room. A small table lay next to his futon with books piled on top. In the corner stood a closet. Its sliding doors complemented the traditional look of the room. “As you can see, I got lucky with my universal basic sponsorship.” Kota said with a smile. Two book cases sat in the opposite corner. One contained a collection of novels and manga, with genres spanning from action, to horror and comedy. The condition of each book varied. Some bore only slight creases, others were falling apart. “The school never understood why, but my sponsor said they found my rebellious nature endearing.” Each bookcase reached up to his chest. More books sat on the top of the shelf, piling up to eye-level. Splashes of blood caked the spine of the top book. A bullet hole ate into its hardback cover. “They said everyone loves a rebel.” The other bookcase contained non-fiction. Kota put the day’s purchase on top of it.

“So, how exactly can you help me?” Deku asked.

“It would involve breaking the rules. Are you sure you don’t want to turn back before it’s too late?”

“Completely sure. The less time I have to waste reading their ‘news’, the more time I can spend learning something useful.”

“Well, it doesn’t take much to make you disobey the rules.” Deku reeled back his head. “And you looked so respectable., I may partake in hacking and frequent dealers on the black market, but I don’t try to hide it by playing innocent.”

“Are you going to help me or not?” Deku clenched his teeth.

Kota smiled and asked for Deku’s mobile terminal. He connected it to the wireless charging unit, a rectangular slab that had been hardwired into the wall. Kota powered the terminal down and inserted a pen drive. Once it rebooted, lines of code began to drown the screen.

“What is it doing?” Deku asked.

“It’s just installing some software. I won’t bore you with the details.”

Deku turned his head towards Kota’s futon. “Your bed cover looks so comfortable. I could only afford a blanket.” Kota’s kakebuton quilt spanned half the width of the room, hanging over the ends of the shikibuton mattress. The stitching separated it into squares that trapped warm air inside. Kota had always looked forward to the soft cotton caressing his skin at the end of a long day.

“It was a gift from my sponsor. You’re welcome to try it any time.” Deku’s head sank. “But I’m sure when word of this gets out, your sponsor will offer you all the furniture you want. Everyone loves a rule breaker.”

The user terminal rebooted to the start screen. Kota took him through the steps of disabling the voice control and performing operations manually. He selected an application labeled “tools”. Its inconspicuous icon featured mathematical symbols and a spanner. Kota instructed Deku to spend the next week reading the school’s approved articles as normal while the application learned his reading speed and habits.

“It’s a bit temperamental, but it’s nothing a quick reboot wouldn’t sort out.” Kota said. “I can’t get to a computer to fix it anymore, so you’ll have to live with it.“ Kota smirked. “But hey, I’m just a dumb guy who listens to rock music and watches pornography. Maybe you’ll find a fix for it.”

“I see. Well, thank you very much. I guess I’m in your debt.”

Kota grabbed the books from the top of the shelf and took them to the closet. “Don’t worry about it.” He slid the doors open. After reaching into the back of the closet, he removed a wooden panel. “And don’t let anyone find out you’ve been buying stuff from Dafu Boy.” He placed the books in a hole in the back. “He could get shut down if we don’t keep it secret. I’m sure neither of us want that to happen.”

Deku thanked him and left. Kota turned to the photo frame that sat beside the pile of books behind the closet. “Sensei.” A picture of an elderly man lay encased behind the glass. The gray strands of his beard formed tight knots. The frayed ends spread across his chest. Pink hearts jumped out from underneath his glasses. “The teachers are on to me. I’ll need your help if I’m going to survive.” Kota bowed to his mentor and placed the wooden panel back where it had been. After a quick bath, he settled in for a night of rough sleep.


	9. Forced Feminzation Bad Part One

Kota struggled to ease his sleepy eyes as he lumbered into the classroom mere seconds before the start of the lesson. Fortunately for him, no teachers were present. The board at the front of the classroom lowered to reveal a TV screen as he sat down. The day’s first lesson began, delivered by a local CEO speaking live from his office. Although unsupervised, there were no guarantees that Kota would get away with dozing off during the lesson. His user terminal kept track of his heartbeat and other vital signs, and he had no faith in his fellow students. 

Little time had passed until he began to nod off. His desire for Tsuguhiro was the only thing keeping him awake. He pictured his naked body, his bulging arms. He rested his weary head on Tsuguhiro’s chest. Tsuguhiro’s muscles twitched against his face. He worked his hands over every inch of his bare flesh, sinking his fingers into the soft flab that clung to his muscular body. His eyelids fell as he began to satiate his desire for flesh, continuing no matter how hard he fought it. Weighed down by fatigue, his head sank into Tsuguhiro. He stopped resisting and fell into a tranquil sleep. 

The school bell blared down his ears. He awoke to find his classmates heading for lunch. After the path cleared, he headed up the stairs to his room. His stomach growled, but he could not wait much longer. He dived into his futon. It seemed like only a second had passed before he woke to the sound of his alarm. He let out a long yawn then ran back down to class.

He walked by Ichikawa-sensei as he entered the classroom. The muscles of his ravaged face had wasted away after years of idleness, giving way to sagging flesh. Curled wisps of his ash colored hair drooped down his forehead.

The bell rang. Ichikawa-sensei stood up to address the class. They belted out their greeting in return and sat down. Ichikawa-sensei started his lecture. Kota took notes of any frequent keywords peppered throughout his talk. ‘Personal responsibility’. That was of particular importance. His generation had shown a distinct lack of it. ‘Forced feminization’ was another important topic. That too had experienced a steep decline, but in this case, it had been cause for celebration. He had been blessed by the circumstances of his birth. The gods had postponed it long enough to grant him entry into the first post-war generation to have been liberated from the scourge of forced feminization. Ichikawa-sensei told stories of his father breaking down in tears, recalling the scenes of horror of his own forced feminization. He was only seven years old when he was first ambushed by respected post-Marxist-feminist scholar Silvia Federici. He was walking home from school one day when she came out of nowhere and tackled him to the ground. She pinned him down to the floor with her elbows. Her lengthy arms reached over his petite prepubescent body with ease, allowing her to clamp his nostrils shut. As he took in a gulp of air, the unmistakable taste of estrogen exploded in his mouth. The poor boy’s parents had no choice but to wean him off the toxins with a diet of wolf’s blood and freshly hunted wild boar. Leftist intellectuals had systematically covered up instances of forced feminization dating back to its creation by Frankfurt School sociologist Theodor Adorno. The establishment once again refused to hold Federici accountable for her crimes against his father. “ Such engaging material.” Kota thought to himself. He jotted down a note on his desktop user interface. ‘Forced feminization BAD!’ 

His patience grew weary. With his tolerance levels exhausted, he started to space out. The afternoon lesson soon drew to a close. He headed up to the cafeteria for his first and only meal of the day. His body craved for food so strongly that even the stale odors of the cafeteria made him salivate. He picked up his tray and walked over to Futsujiro.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter makes reference to some real life people, one of which is still alive. Just in case it needs to be mentioned, any named real life person here is not the target of the jokes, and any actions attributed to them are fictional.


	10. Forced Feminzation Bad Part Two

“The chicken’s so dry today.” Futsujiro mumbled as Kota sat down. Laughter radiated from Kanto’s table. Kota leaned in and listened in on them. Aisuke’s shrill voice rang through his ears. He picked up his chopsticks. Chunks of chicken sat on top of a heap of fried rice. Kota took a slice of chicken. He bit into it, shaving off the outer edges, but failing to break it down to size. The papery splinters dug themselves into the gaps between his teeth. Its marinated cardboard texture fell short of even the school’s loose standards. Kota spat the chicken out onto his plate. His vision grew blurry. He shoveled the fried rice into his mouth. His teeth gnashed against the bloated grains of rice. They released bursts of oil as they disintegrated in his mouth. The oil stuck to the roof of his mouth. He washed it down with a glass of water. Globs of oil clung to his throat. “That’s me done. I’m gonna head back now.” Futsujiro said.

Kota cleared his table. Half-chewed morsels of chicken littered his plate. Kanto and the others sat between him and the exit. Kanto’s broad shoulders swung in tune with his speech. Their mouths moved in silence, sharing words which were of no interest or relevance. Aisuke made animated hand gestures, reacting with his usual level of faux outrage and exaggerated incredulity. Motoyuki nodded along, resembling a reveler at a rowdy music performance. Tsuguhiro fixed his sights on Kanto and Aisuke, two heartless anti-intellectuals unworthy of the attention of such a magnificent man. Kota drew closer. His shoulders tensed up. His eyes instinctively jumped to Tsuguhiro. They ran uncontrolled across the curves of his body. He rested his eyes upon his round belly, propped up against the table. Next, they moved to his biceps. They ballooned out from his tight clothing.

Kota dropped his head to the ground as he sneaked by their table. Yearning for the sight of Tsuguhiro, his eyes rose from the ground. Tsuguhiro’s eyes stared into his. He flashed Kota a friendly smile. His composed smile loosened Kota’s stiff shoulders. Tsuguhiro’s intentions however remained hidden under the soft lighting of the cafeteria, where any and all of the thugs who attended the school would be ready to pounce at the mildest hints of vulnerability. Kota flashed a nonchalant smile, a simple gesture of politeness that ran little risk of being misinterpreted. 

He pressed on toward the exit, facing straight ahead. Aisuke’s arm fanned against his skin as he waved it back and forth. Kota couldn’t help but take one last glimpse of Tsuguhiro. He placed his eyes on him to find the widest grin covering his face from ear to ear. His moist lips glistened in the light. The trimmed bristles of his beard stood on their ends. He stared straight into his warm eyes. The room faded from view.

Tsuguhiro’s beard nuzzled against Kota’s cheeks. His strong arms wrapped themselves around his body. Kota caressed his lover’s biceps. His fingertips followed the contours of his muscles, sinking and rising as they went. He unbuttoned Tsuguhiro’s shirt. It rolled off his skin, revealing his bare chest. He squeezed the muscle bear’s nipple between his fingers. Tsuguhiro squealed. Kota worked his hands downwards to his lover’s firm belly. He grabbed a handful of it. The muscle bear murmured to himself. Kota’s fingertips sank into the soft flesh. He molded it in his hands. The body fat lay on top of firm muscle. It resisted his grasp as he squeezed deeper into it. 

Tsuguhiro rolled onto his stomach and shoved his ass into Kota’s face. He settled back down, waiting for Kota to take the lead. Kota was more than happy to oblige. Nothing could have given him greater pleasure than a chunky submissive bottom. He latched onto his buttocks. They had the firm yet pliable texture of a ripe orange. He slid off his lover’s slacks. They clinged to his curvy cheeks as he pulled them down. He pulled them over his ankles. He took a moment to admire his naked body then placed his hands on his thighs and spread them open. A patch of fur tickled his tongue. The leathery texture resisted it as it swept past. Tsuguhiro let out a low moan. Kota quivered with excitement. 

Tsuguhiro pounded his ass against his face, slapping Kota with his plump buttocks. The poor muscle bear had had enough of being teased. Kota plunged right in. His tongue curled up from the pressure. He made slow, shallow dips. He took deeper thrusts as it loosened up. Tsuguhiro’s body trembled. He let out a long, deep groan. Kota loved to see a man crumble under the intensity of his sexual prowess. He gripped his hands on his lover’s firm buttocks and made circular motions with his tongue. The muscle bear squealed. Kota gave his worn out tongue a rest. He pulled out and gave Tsuguhiro’s hairy ass one last kiss.

Tsuguhiro’s head sunk to the floor, muffling the sound of his punctuated breath. Kota laid on top of him and caressed his back. His throbbing erection poked against his lover’s skin. The muscle bear clenched his butt cheeks shut, trapping him between them. Each clench made Kota’s knees shake. He took the hint and pushed himself up from the floor. He had slept for less than 3 hours, his muscles ached, but he could not stop until he had done all he could to satisfy Tsuguhiro.

The desks clanged against the floor. Motoyuki stood in front of Kota. The red veins of his bulging eyes flared up. He moved in on him. Kota retreated, hitting his back against Aisuke. His stiff body sprung him forwards. Kanto’s lackeys surrounded him. More arrived. The gaps between them shrank further. Beads of sweat of ran down his forehead. He lifted his right hand to wipe it away. Right at that moment, the most curious thing slid into view.


	11. Crazy Revolutionary Asians Part One

Kota’s raised fist— the symbol of the IWW, a gesture of solidarity between comrades— soared above his head for all to see, signaling his political positions to those in the know. Fortunately, there was no reason to suspect his classmates of being in possession of such obscure knowledge. Kota had only chanced upon it after extensive research into the Spanish Civil War.

“He’s a communist!” Otohiko said. Clearly they were much more knowledgeable than they appeared.

Kota dropped his arm to his waist. “Ever heard of a sore finger? You snowflakes think everything is communist.” Motoyuki lunged straight at him. Kota’s large frame absorbed the impact of his dainty figure. He pushed him aside, sending him flying into a group of students. He took advantage of the momentary opening, dashed forward and broke their formation. Otohiko tackled him to the ground. Leveraging the strength in his arms, he catapulted himself from the floor, crushing Otohiko under his weight. With a swift elbow to the stomach, Otohiko loosened his grip.

He rose from the ground. Kanto grabbed him by his collars. His narrowed eyes stared into him. He pressed his curled lips together. “Let me show you a few things I learned about the red scare. This is how we deal with communists.” Kota stamped on his foot. Kanto’s eyes turned glassy. He squealed and let go of Kota’s shirt. Kota retaliated with a punch to the stomach. It sent Kanto careening backwards and tripping over Otohiko’s incapacitated body.

With the ringleaders defeated, the others slinked away. Only Tsuguhiro remained behind. All expression of emotion had been wiped from his face. 

“Kota. I hope you have a good explanation for this.”

He turned to find the principal standing behind him with his arms folded.


	12. Crazy Revolutionary Asians Part Two

The principal’s unflinching face stared back at Kota. The overpowering scent irritated his nostrils.

The doors slid open. “Ichikawa-sensei.” The principal said. “Did you bring the materials from your lesson?” Ichikawa-Sensei approached from behind carrying a dusty tome in his hands. The table creaked under its weight as he set it down. The cover featured many hundreds of skulls. A bright red hammer and sickle jumped out from the dark background. The title caught Kota’s attention.

How to Spot a Communist

The principal flipped though it before coming to a stop around a hundred pages in. “Aha, here we go.” He turned it around to show Kota. “The republican salute.” 

“I just hurt my finger. That’s all it was.” Kota said.

“Yet you recovered quickly enough to fight an entire room?” the principal asked.

Kota let out a sigh. “I had no choice but to push through the pain and defend myself. They ganged up on me like an unruly mob.” He smirked and leaned back in his seat. “I’m not the one who should be here. You should be speaking to the tyrannical majority who thought they could silence me by force. All I did was defend myself in accordance with the NAP.”

Kota’s comments wiped the grin from the principal’s face. “So you expect us to believe that it was nothing but a sore finger?”

Kota nodded. “Absolutely. I’m no communist. I’m a proud libertarian.”

The principal’s frown morphed into a cunning grin. “Well then, I can only presume that your dwellings will reflect on that perfectly. Why don’t we take a look at your room? I wouldn’t expect us to find any unauthorized communist propaganda there.” He swiveled around in his chair. “Search every corner of his room.” he said to Ichikawa-sensei. “If anything gives off even the faintest hints of leftist subversion, I need to know about it.” 

The principal ordered him out of the room. Kota did all he could to remain composed, but his heart raced. Fortunately for him, hiding his true feelings had become second nature. The principal seemed unaware of the bag of nerves present underneath his calm demeanor. He followed them through the hallway. With his mind focused on forming a plan, he slipped on a crack in the floor. The principal’s head turned to investigate the screeching sound. Kota stared ahead and pretended nothing had happened.

He followed them up the stairs. Another student entered from the second floor and cut in front of them. He tapped away at his mobile device as the principal and Ichikawa-sensei slowed down to a crawl. Kota should have been grateful for the extra time to think, but his shoulders grew tighter. There was no telling how much this minor delay had angered the principal. The student’s gaze met with the principal’s as he took the corner and tore himself away from his screen. His face went from vacant to alarmed. He quickly realized he had somewhere else to be and scurried off. 

Kota took deep breaths as he went over all the things he had done since the previous evening. His room was often cluttered with books. He always tried to hide any evidence of unauthorized reading materials, but the pressures of school gave him little time for tidying up. He could recall putting away the previous days purchases, but there were many more books to be found across his room. With interests ranging from history to labor organization and revolutionary theory, no single book had ever satisfied his intellectual curiosity. He would often jump from book to book and lose track of his progress. Kota’s hands trembled as he reached his floor.


	13. Crazy Revolutionary Asians Part Three

“What’s keeping you so long?” the principal asked. Kota caught up with them. They pushed him away as soon as he unlocked the door to his room. Ichikawa-sensei began to tear books down from the shelves. He glanced at the titles and discarded them with little care or attention. Every so often, he would find a book that piqued his curiosity and flip through its pages, but it was not long before he dropped it to the floor with a look of disappointment. 

Ichikawa-sensei grabbed the last book from the shelf and moved on to the next. First, he turned his attention to the battered hardback book resting on the top. Its worn out spine hung from the few remaining splinters of its bindings as he flipped through it. He threw it to the floor. The front cover fell apart from its spine as it hit the ground. He poured through the books. A smirk appeared on his face each time he chanced upon an inconspicuous looking book with a title that bore hints of betraying its innocent and scholarly appearance, but the smirk disappeared as soon as he reached the end. “Nothing suspicious here.” Ichikawa-sensei said. “He must have hidden them somewhere else.”

The principal nodded. “Search the room. We’re not leaving until we’ve checked every inch.”

Ichikawa-sensei agreed. First, he examined Kota’s futon. He threw it in the air, but found nothing hiding beneath it. It landed in shreds against the tatami mat. The table was next. He swept his arm across it, forcing various trinkets and other objects to the ground. He used the freshly cleared space to examine a pile of books he found hidden under a pile of clothing. He looked past their mundane titles and tore through their pages in search of more incriminating content. A single page flew out and floated to the ground. Ichikawa-sensei was too focused on his reading to take notice of it. More pages came flying out. Kota picked them up from the ground and put them back in order. He scraped his hand across them, attempting to flatten out any creases. “ It must be so hard for you to witness this.” the principal said. “You could always confess if you wanted to get this over with quickly.”

Kota tutted and shook his head. “I’m not hiding anything.”

“I really hope you aren’t. You know, the CEO would be very interested in meeting you if he heard that you lied to us. ” A smug smile covered his face. “In fact, I could see you getting a VIP trip in his private helicopter.” The principal stared back at Kota, refusing to break eye contact. His strained cheekbones heaved out from his face. Kota’s jaw tensed up at the principal’s frozen expression. The sound of flapping paper failed to drown out the unnerving silence.

“Nothing here. What else is there?”Ichikawa-sensei said . Loose pages and clothing littered the floor, obscuring the folds of the tatami mat that hid underneath.

“All that’s left is the closet.”the principal said . Kota’s hands began to shake. The principal turned to him. “You can’t hide anything from us. If there’s anything here, we’re going to find it.”

Ichikawa-sensei tossed out Kota’s clothing one by one. He unraveled a t shirt in his hands to search for any hidden objects. Finding nothing, he threw it on the ground with the others. The clothing piled up until the closet laid bare. Ichikawa-sensei took heavy, audible breaths as he leaned his tired body against the closet. He screamed and plunged his fists into the door. Kota shielded his ears as it cracked. It fell into pieces. “There’s nothing here.” Ichikawa-sensei said. The veins in his eyes flared up, peering out from the cascade of tears.

“I told you I wasn’t hiding anything.” Kota’s jaw froze up as he finished his sentence.

The principal rubbed his hand against his chin. “Well, it would appear so.” He stared up at the ceiling before facing Kota once again. “But this doesn’t explain your patterns of behavior. We’ve been very worried about you for many years. You don’t listen in class, you don’t keep up with your reading, and then the CIA contacts us to say that you’ve hacked into their systems.”

“I never did trust you.” Ichikawa-sensei said. “You never could give a straight answer to anything. All you ever do is dole out the lines you’ve rehearsed in advance. I’ve always seen through you, and I always knew you were a trouble maker. You better watch yourself.” He clenched his fists. “One day you’re going to find out what happens to dreamy eyed idealists who think they know what’s best.” He plunged his fist into the back of the closet. It collapsed in on itself. Kota shut his eyes as the plywood panel cracked. “What’s this, more books?” Ichikawa-sensei took a peek through the hole in the wood.

Ichikawa-sensei plunged his hand into the gap and pulled out a tattered book. His eyes exploded as he opened it. Kota’s lips quivered. His heart raced. He stood frozen as Ichikawa-sensei examined the book. Kota head froze in place. Ichikawa-sensei’s jaw dropped. His lips trembled as they attempted to form a sentence. Beads of saliva flew from his mouth. He flipped the book around in his hands and examined the front and back covers, confused by its content. Kota closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The pressure eased from his chest.

Ichikawa-sensei placed the book on the floor. He put his hand back into the hole in the closet and took out another, a paperback with faded lettering and a warped surface. “Pampered princess Ayako-chan never had time for epic gamers, but finds her riches, power and influence meaningless when an earthquake strikes. With our poor little daddy’s girl all alone in a rural town struck with a power outage, that bitch better give good head, or else she’s out on the fucking streets.” He removed the remains of the plywood cover and took more books from the pile. He flipped through them and faced the principal in disbelief. “They’re all ero manga.”

The principal placed his hand on his chin and rubbed his cheek. After a moment of contemplation, he removed his mobile terminal from his pocket. It played an audio notification. “Retrieving purchase history for Kota 6869.” He nodded to himself as he read the results. “That’s strange. I don’t see any of these listed under your purchases. Where exactly did you obtain them from?”

“Well ...” Kota said. “My friend Jun kept getting bullied whenever they found his manga. He asked me if I could keep them safe for him.” It was the most convincing argument he could think of on such short notice.

“Then we shall speak to Jun. Where is he?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him for weeks. He stopped turning up to class all of a sudden.”

The principal nodded his head and turned to Ichikawa-sensei. “Well then. I guess we won’t be able to verify Jun’s account of this transaction.” 

“Why not? Where did he go?”

“Well… “ The principal folded his arms and glared down at Kota. “That’s none of your concern.” He turned to the ceiling. “And tell me, why did you hide them behind the closet?”

“Well, you know .... It’s kind of ...” He took a shallow breath. “It’s kind of embarrassing, and I didn’t know how to get rid of them, so I hid them away.

“I see.” The principal grabbed onto his mobile terminal. “Retrieving purchase history for Jun 5912”. “Very interesting. I can’t find any record of these under Jun’s purchase history either. How did he get a hold of them?”

Kota shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. He’s an independent economic agent. Whatever retailers he decides to deal with, and whatever goods he decides to buy are his business, not mine.”

The principal bit his lips. “Thank you very much Ichikawa-sensei, but it looks like the helicopter is going to remain grounded ... for now.” He grabbed hold of one of the books. “We’ll need to investigate further. Marxists have been hiding pro-leftist propaganda in works of entertainment for centuries. I’ll need to search them for any hidden messages.” Deep dimples formed on his wrinkly face. “So if you think this is over, then picture me, pumping my wrists at breakneck speed as I move through each page, examining each image in minute detail.” He rubbed his moist lips together. “Every single stroke.” His made circular motions with his tongue against his lower lip. “And although I may end up pushing my frail body to a premature climax, mark my words, after a quick nap, I’ll be back up and ready for more.” He grinned. His round cheeks bulged out. “And I won’t stop until I’ve gone all the way.” He put the books into an orderly pile and handed them to Ichikawa-sensei. “You take a long, hard think about that. If you confess, we may go easy on you.” They slammed the door shut.


	14. Crazy Revolutionary Asians Part Four

The strength drained from Kota’s body the second his need to maintain the facade of innocence became unnecessary. He dropped to the floor. He crawled into his futon and rolled around until he had it back in its proper place. He spread out his arms and legs and rested his fatigued body. The pain started to fade as he took deep breaths. The sound of chattering students leaked in from the hallways. Kota closed his eyes. With such an eventful day, an early night’s sleep was just what he needed. Each crevice on his body sank into the soft fabric of the futon. His kakebuton quilt calmed his irritated skin. His head grew heavy.

Kota awoke to seizing pain. He tossed and turned as it gripped his stomach. His throat seized up. He took rapid breaths. He started to choke. His stiff body lay immobile. “Kota” His body started to shake. “Kota!” 

His eyes opened to the sight of Deku’s upturned face. “Good evening, Kota. That sure was a spectacular event you caused back there.” A hefty book with cream colored binding ate into his stomach. “May I advise you not to draw attention to your purchases. I’m sure neither you nor I want to lose Dafu Boy’s services.” 

Kota’s sore muscles eased up. He let out a sigh of relief. “Thanks.”

“I hope you don’t mind if I had a quick read of it. You sure do have interesting taste in books. Although, I must say that there was a surprising lack of magic considering that it’s supposed to be about witches.” Deku’s gaze drifted to the ceiling. “No magic, but a lot heretics being persecuted.” 

“And the rest of them?”

“I hid them in my room.” Deku took hold of the book. “I’d suggest you wait for things to settle down before you come to collect them.” He took a look around Kota’s ravaged room. “And it looks like you’ll need to find a new hiding place too.”

“And the ero manga?”

“Oh…” Deku covered his mouth, caressing his left cheek with his hand. “Well, I thought it might look suspicious if they found an empty hiding place, so I got something to throw them off guard.”

“From your treasured personal collection, were they?”

Deku removed his hand from his mouth and leaned into Kota’s face. “No.“ He pulled back. “I asked Dafu Boy for help. He said I could have them as they had taken too much liquid damage.”

“Thanks. I don’t know what I would have done without your help.”

“No problem. I’ve managed to get so much more self studying done now that I no longer need to waste my time with the school’s authorized news sources.” 

Kota and Deku thanked each other once more and parted ways. Kota showed him to the door. With danger at bay, he got ready to take a relaxing bath. A metallic object brushed against his feet. He looked down to find a USB pen drive. He had been so concerned about his books that he had forgotten about it. Fortunately for him, the school’s technically inept teachers had neither the skills nor inclination to examine it for incriminating evidence. He placed it back on the table for safekeeping. After soaking in the dormitory bath, he settled in for a peaceful night’s sleep.


	15. The Soothsayer's Curse Part One

With the books and clothing put back in their place, order began to return to the room. Kota stacked up the planks of wood from the broken closet in the neat pile in the corner of the room. The muscles in his back knotted up. He tried to massage it, but couldn’t reach it with his hands. He took a break and sat down by the kotatsu table. 

The events of the previous evening seemed like a distant memory. Though both relieved and surprised at evading detection once again, he came too close to being exposed too many times. The teachers were bound to do everything within their power to get him expelled. For now, all he could do was remain inconspicuous and wait for them to make a move. 

The hallway began to fill with the sound of creaking doors and the scuffled footsteps of the other students heading to class. Kota got up and stretched his back. He joined the others in the hallway and made his way downstairs.

Adachi-sensei stood by the teacher’s podium as he entered the room. Even among the denizens of the school, who were all much worse for wear, Adachi-sensei looked like he had taken a particularly savage battering. He had lost his legs many years ago. Many rumors about his alleged accident had spread throughout the school, but it was never openly discussed. Those brave and foolish enough to ask were punished with public humiliation. His replacement metallic legs spanned the length of a grown man’s thighs, placing him at eye level with the students when they sat down. His hair too resembled inorganic matter, with its thick black molded strands looking more like plastic. When silent— a phenomenon as rare as a solar eclipse and as fleeting as the British summer— his sour face displayed the mild wince of a man who had mistakenly sipped on vinegar but would rather endure its tartness than admit to his own stupidity.

Deku smiled at Kota as he walked in. He nodded back. Students trickled in. They rubbed their tired eyes and rolled their shoulders. Adachi-sensei’s lessons were particularly draining, and the school weren’t helping by subjecting his class to them first thing in the morning. The last remaining student rushed into the class. He fell into his seat in time with the bell.

“Very well then. Let’s begin.” Adachi-sensei said. His harsh voice blasted out, hitting the students like an air horn. The last student to enter, clearly unprepared for Adachi-sensei’s energetic presence, fell back in his seat. “So today, let’s talk about America. If we were ever to say, for instance, for the sake of simplicity, that such a thing does in fact exist, then we must declare that America, the shining example of liberal democracy, is in fact the greatest civilization in the history of earth.” He spoke like a video stuck on triple speed. His mouth moved and formed shapes that bore no resemblance to the words he spoke. 

He powered up the projector. It loaded a picture of a city. Towers grew from fertile green ground, stretching into the skyline. “Here is Foresight, America’s capital, home to the world’s greatest entrepreneurs. Some say that they should pay their way, but if such a thing does indeed exist, then a rising tide does in fact lift all boats.” He loaded up the next slide. “And here we have The Runaway Six, America’s most popular band, musicians famous within the genre of Jazz, one of America’s greatest contributions to civilization.” A layer of moisture covered his eyes at all times. Anyone who had just met him could only assume that he had just ran sobbing from a vicious roasting.

Not wanting to be caught out, Kota made some notes on his desktop interface. After writing a few keywords to keep his memory fresh, he returned to the lecture. Adachi-sensei’s lips drew his gaze. The soft light shone off his smooth, glossy skin. They rubbed against each other. The classroom faded away as they formed an inward swirl. Kota’s eyelids weighed down on him. He closed them and drifted off to a gentle sleep. Adachi-sensei’s voice soothed his tired body. He floated, free from the built up fatigue of daily life.

An unseen force struck him across the face, jerking him from side to side. The blows continued. The blurry sight of the classroom returned to him. One of his classmates stood before him. “You alright? We lost you back there.” 

Kota nodded in response. “Yes, I’m fine.” The cracked flooring scratched his skin. He looked down to find that he was standing in his bare feet.

His classmate fetched his shoes and socks. “He’ll hypnotize you. It’s part of the soothsayer’s curse. Don’t look directly at his mouth.” Kota put his shoes and socks back on and sat down. Although his memory escaped him, something about the soothsayer’s curse sounded familiar. 

“Poki did nothing wrong.” Adachi-sensei said. “He went from being a regular boy to a CEO of a successful corporation.

Perhaps it was something Kota had heard from his friend Yoshi. He had always told him the most unusual tales. Many of them took place in the decade preceding a tenuously asserted environmental disaster. He had a feint memory of the story of a witch who predicted it all. Perhaps that could have been it. 

“But four young activist thought they could democratically choose to hold him at gun point.”

Kota pieced together the fragments of his memory. He began to recollect more of them in greater detail. It was the twilight years of the golden age of Liberalism. The affluent masses celebrated each night, ignorant of the destruction that was yet to come. A young women gained notoriety for predicting the coming downfall. Her name was Amara of Caledonia. She drew the ire of many, who decried her a charlatan. Her infamy attracted the attention of the era’s foremost logician, a chaste man who harbored no desires outside of the scholarly world of science and reason. He publicly denounced her as a liar and scaremonger, destroying her reputation. She withdrew from public life, and her warning faded from the collective consciousness.

The world returned to normal, but just as she had predicted, the coming destruction did in fact manifest a decade later, shattering their hard earned peace and prosperity. Society collapsed. Governments, militaries and police forces fell as their infrastructures crumbled away. Billions died in an event that would become known as The Cataclysm. Although vindicated, this brought no joy to the soothsayer, who sadly perished in the fires of destruction. 

The logician survived, but he lost all he held dear. He lost his children and his beloved wife— who just so happened to be a medical professional. Although he undoubtedly shared some of the responsibility for the fall of society, the chaos shielded him from accountability. Racked with guilt, he set out to find the soothsayer’s burial site. After months of investigation, he visited her unmarked grave with the intent of paying his respects. The moonlight reflected off the course limestone. The tears cascaded down his face. 

After a moment of prayer, the logician had completed all he had set out to do. A thought occurred to him. With the cover of darkness and no one in sight, who was there to punish him if he were to commit a crime? He had lost everything, and all he had ever coveted lay buried in the ground beneath him. He dug away at the soil with his bare hands. It had no yet occurred to him that the soothsayer was no clairvoyant. She had merely voiced the scientific consensus by citing empirical facts from peer reviewed studies. Yet she possessed the most beguiling magic of all— her exotic beauty.

The logician swept away the last patches of soil imprisoning her dead body. He tore through her flesh, which had grown tender after years of decay, but her bones remained strong. He chipped away at them with the edge of the gravestone. With the bone severed, he took hold of the object he had most sought after and placed it in his bag. 

The logician dropped to the ground. An overpowering force weighted down on his body. The soothsayer’s lifeless body rose from her grave. Although her eyes and mouth remained closed, her voice emanated from within. She glowered at his paralyzed body. “My dear logician.” she said. “I’m afraid your years of scientific reasoning and civil debate are over. From now on, you shall spout only gibberish and lies.” She struck him with a curse, severing his legs from his body. From that day on, his mouth was no longer his own. The majority shunned him as an eccentric, but certain circles in society admired him as a visionary. He remarried shortly afterwards and bore children later in life, through which he discovered that the curse was passed to the first born males of his line.

“If we were to assume, for the sake of simplicity, that such a person does indeed exist, then we can do nothing but admit that Poki is in fact a self-made billionaire.”

Could Yoshi’s retelling of the soothsayer’s curse really have been true? He was a very unusual person. He had once spent months collecting century old JR East commuter passes so that he could melt them down and mold them into a smiling face. When Kota questioned him about this, he said he needed it to ward off attacks from the blonde Sasquatch that had built their home in the cafeteria fridge. Kota told him that no such creature could possibly exist, but he was adamant that he had encountered the Sasquatch one evening after returning from club activities, and claimed that it tried to tackle him to the ground and wrestle his mobile device out from his hands. Neither story seemed plausible, which is why Kota was taken aback when a third party verified one of his tall tales.  
A sharp object slashed Kota across the face. His eyes teared up. The stiff flesh of his classmate’s toe tickled his eyelids. The smell of cheese choked his nostrils. He gagged and drooled onto the sole of his foot. The hypnotized student’s toe brushed against his nose. Kota clamped his mouth shut, but his grip was not strong enough to prevent his classmate’s toe from penetrating his lips. The acidic tones of vinegar caused him to foam up at the mouth. His throat contracted in an attempt to flush out the toxins. 

Kota’s classmates grabbed onto the hypnotized student and pulled him away. His toe began to pull back, gashing the inside of Kota’s cheek. Kota spat out an acidic mouthful of saliva into his handkerchief and took a gulp of air. Two of his classmates pinned the hypnotized student to the floor while another slapped him across the face. He came back to his senses and apologized to all involved.

Adachi-sensei continued speaking, seemingly oblivious to the scene that had unfolded before him. The school bell rang. After standing to thank the teacher for their lesson, the students filed out of the class for lunch. Kota made a detour to the toilets to wash his face and rinse out the bitter taste from his mouth.


	16. The Soothsayer's Curse Part Two

Kota entered the cafeteria and grabbed one of the two remaining lunch trays. He spotted Futsujiro among the sea of faces and walked up to his table. Kanto, Aisuke and Motoyuki sat at the table in front of them. They went silent as soon as they saw him approach. They shied away when he tried to make eye contact with them. Kota smiled to himself in amusement.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the dirty fucking communist” Futsujiro said jokingly. A plate of chilled tofu soaking in soy sauce sat on Kota’s tray. It was topped with a misshapen, discolored bonito flake that resembled a pencil sharpener shaving. The harsh saltiness of the undiluted soy sauce assaulted his senses. He reached for the rice. It broke off into a solid clump. The lumps of rice floated on top of the soy sauce, failing to soak it up. He bit into it. After breaking through the dry, crispy shell, his teeth gnashed into the soggy mush inside. 

“I can’t believe they’re serving chilled tofu as a main dish. This is a new low.” Futsujiro said.

Tsuguhiro approached from the end of the room. His hips swayed as he walked. His voluminous purple hair bounced in tune with his step. His smooth skinned face— unblemished as polished marble and free of a single patch of stubble— won the hearts of the fujoshi and twink lovers who participated in the focus group. “He’s like the idol band member boyfriend I’ve always dreamed of.” said one participant, a thirty to forty-five year old fujoshi.

His minuscule frame moved gracefully through the room. “I want to run my hands down his slender back. I’m so glad I didn’t stop reading when they turned the love interest into a grizzly fat guy.” said another participant, an eighteen to twenty-five year old twink lover.

Tsuguhiro’s ikemen version had a presence just as striking as his yaro-kei version. Kota wondered how such a man could exist. Could it have all been due to an economic system? Perhaps one in which privately owned entities compete for profit within a market economy?

Kanto looked up from his table as Tsuguhiro approached. He gave him a wave. To his surprise, Tsuguhiro ignored him and walked on by. After a moment of shock, he clenched his fists and punched Aisuke on his shoulder. Aisuke gritted his teeth for a second then laughed, putting up a tough front. He broke character and rubbed his sore shoulder as soon as Kanto turned away. Kota quietly chucked to himself. He had no idea what had happened, but having them out of the way would make it easier to get close to Tsuguhiro.

Tsuguhiro continued to the far end of the cafeteria. Kota’s eyes tracked him, eager to know where he was heading. The slender bodied twink stopped at a table. Kota raised his head to peer over the crowd of people blocking his view. Tsuguhiro appeared to bow and introduce himself. He sat down and disappeared from view. Kota weaved his head from side to side to get a better view, indifferent to the risk of drawing attention. He raised his back a few inches from the bench. He made out a few feint details of the man he was speaking to. His lapel, stitched with red and gold threads, peaked out behind Tsuguhiro’s slender figure. “What’s wrong?” Futsujiro asked. “On the lookout for counter revolutionaries or something?” Kota responded with an awkward laugh and sat back down in his chair.

Kota took a bite of tofu to take his mind off Tsuguhiro. His stomach growled as he swallowed it. Having lost his appetite, his head darted across the room. He spotted them standing up from their table. The finer details of Tsuguhiro’s photogenic face came into focus as he got closer. Kota’s heart stalled as their footsteps travelled towards him. 

“Thank you so much for letting me join.” Tsuguhiro winked at Kota while he spoke to his companion. 

“Well, you were actually the first person to show any interest. Tradition and loyalty doesn’t mean very much to people around here. I hope you’re the exception.”

“As a proud servant of Amaterasu, I can assure you that I am.”


	17. Stupid Sexy Nazis Part One

“I am pleased to hear of your devotion to Amaterasu. I expect big things from you.” Otohiko walked with his back bolt upright. He advanced through the room taking seemingly calculated strides of equal distance. His choreographed motions did not falter even in the midst of conversation, lending him an air of the theatrical. “Your charisma shall open our brother’s eyes to the importance of safeguarding our traditions.” 

They came to a stop near Kota’s table. Tsuguhiro’s breath tickled the back of his neck. His body froze up. He had never felt so oversized. He inched himself leftward to put some space between them. Futsujiro’s perplexed expression stopped him from moving any further. Tsuguhiro and Otohiko continued their private conversation. Kota stared out at the sea of gray metal desks and benches. All he could do was appear oblivious until they finally left. He breathed easy as soon as the sound of their footsteps grew feint.

A pouting Kanto slid his tray over to Aisuke. He left him to clean up the mess. Aisuke rushed to mop up the spilled water. He stacked their bowls and trays together and left. On any other day, Kota would have found their squabbling amusing. With little time left, he carried his tray to the wash station and threw out his barely eaten lunch. He joined the swarm of students making their way back to class. The bell rang as he sat down. The students loaded up the video lectures they had been assigned.

Vibrant colors and catchy phrases shot across his screen, but he was too distracted to take any of it in. He had never shared a single word with Tsuguhiro, yet he still felt betrayed. No one had ever captured his attention quite the way he had. His perfect figure and smooth skin stood out among the crowds of flat hairstyles. There was no valid reason to expect his infatuation to lead to anything serious, but an unrealized possibility brought him greater comfort than a lost opportunity. Yet the more Kota thought about him, the more suspect it all seemed. He had never encountered another transfer student in all his years at school. Corporations conducted their business in the utmost secrecy. He had heard rumors about the other corporations that occupied each of the twenty-three wards of Tokyo, but the little information he had heard was contradictory and lacked credibility. He wondered what Tsuguhiro could have possibly done to be ejected from his previous school, and how had he had managed to convince the principal to take on a potential liability. 

Forgetting about Tsuguhiro and moving on seemed to be the only sensible option. Perhaps his search for the forgotten heir to the fallen Empire of Japan would consume his life, and he would disappear from view. Perhaps he would grow unrecognizable as he adorned his body in rising sun flags and increasingly gaudy imperial insignias, until he finally faded from Kota’s memory. But that ass though. That ass would not fade from his memory without a fight.

Kota stayed behind as the rest of the class finished their assignments and left. After multiple repeats, he finally had the focus to take it seriously and complete the reports. He rushed to dinner minutes before service ended then finished off his day with an evening of quiet contemplation.


	18. Stupid Sexy Nazis Part Two

The first two months of the new academic year passed by. Kota maintained a friendly but taciturn relationship with Deku, who would often smile to him when they passed by each other in the common room or hallway. Kanto and his group of friends, now estranged from Tsuguhiro, no longer cowered at the sight of him, but were cautious not to get involved. The teachers made no mention of the trouble he had gotten into at the start of term, seeming eager to let things return to normal.

Kota rested his wrists against the common room kotatsu. His feet snuggled against the rug. After sinking so many years into the computer club, a calm evening flipping through the pages of a book brought great comfort to him. The book told stories of the masses coming together as a community to fight unjust authority and persecution.

Futsujiro emerged from his room wearing shorts and a polo shirt. “Hey ... So I was just about to head down to the gym to play badminton. You’re not doing anything tonight, are you? Why don’t you come?”

"No thanks. I feel like having a quiet night in for once.” Kota said, still burying his head in his book.

Futsujiro stuttered. “Oh ... but you must get lonely stuck up here. It would do you some good to get out and talk to people more often.

Kota turned to the next page of his book. “Maybe some other time.”

Futsujiro let out a sigh. “Look, I don’t want to go alone. Goro’s been skulking around and waiting to see which clubs are losing members. He shut down the table tennis club last week. Apparently, they weren’t getting as many injuries as his sponsors had hoped for. They’d prefer to see us all join the boxing club and seek treatment for a broken nose every other week.”

Kota placed his bookmark between the open pages. “Sure, I’ll come.”

“Thank you. Our club’s numbers have been a little thin lately. I don’t want to end up with a massive bill like Yosuke did. He had to go into therapy after coming back from the hospital. It set him back with another 10 years of debt.”

Kota and Futsujiro stepped out of their dorm and into the hallway. The flickering light bulb swung back and forth. “You really should think about joining another club. It’s only a matter of time before Goro goes after you too.” Futsujiro said.

“He doesn’t scare me.”

“What else are you going to do with your evenings then?”

“I don’t know, maybe get started on my backlog of books, study more, agitate for class consciousness.”

“Erm ... well, you know you’ll always be welcome at the badminton club.”


	19. Stupid Sexy Nazis Part Three

Kota and Futsujiro stepped out onto the pitch black first floor. The principal would often cut off the power once he had retired for the night. Students attending their clubs in the gym were considered unworthy of the luxury of lighting and warm showers. There had so far been no signs of Goro. 

Futsujiro’s club-mate stood guard outside the equipment room. His face lit up as soon as he recognized Futsujiro amid the darkness. They got their rackets and waited for the other members to arrive.

Kota leaned against the wall. Futsujiro’s muffled voice echoed through the hallway, canceled out by the occasional scream from the gym. A nearby door creaked under the pressure of it’s own shattered pieces. Footsteps approached from the end of the hallway. “Kota, how’s your computer club been doing?”

“Not so good, actually.”

“I’ve been waiting to see you, but you keep getting away. I’ve heard of all the trouble you’ve gotten into.

Kota smiled. “Well, what can I say. I lead an interesting life. I’m the life and soul of the party no matter where I go. I can’t help but draw attention to myself.”

“That’s not what I meant. I heard you’re a communist.”

“Well, you shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

“Communists make me sick. If I had my way, I’d throw them them all off the eighth floor balcony.”

“Goro!” Futsujiro said, stepping out from the equipment room. “Leave us alone. We’re just trying to get on with our club activities, and you’re scaring everyone away.”

“Only two of you today, I see. Your club’s gone downhill. It won’t be long until I have to shut it down for good.” Goro said.

“You’re not shutting anyone down. There would have been plenty of people if you would just stop stalking us.”

Kota let out a bemused laugh. “I don’t know why you’re all so scared of him.” He said. “He may be strong, but he’s a clumsy fucker.”

Goro moved in on Kota and pressed his face against his. “You think you can take me on?”

Kota remained silent. Goro’s jacket sleeves flapped through the air. The towering thug’s arms reached for Kota’s throat. Kota ducked and tackled him to the ground. Goro fell head first into the wall. “I’ll get you for this.” He held his wrist against his nose. Blood ran down his face. He waved his other fist around, aiming for Kota’s face. Each hit brushed past him. 

“Come on then.” Kota said. “What are you waiting for?” He backstepped through the hallway, leaning into the towering thug’s punches and dodging at the last moment. The blood splattered against his face. Goro stopped to catch his breath. He bent down and clutched his chest.

“What did I tell you? Such a clumsy fucker.”

Goro grunted. He dashed towards Kota. The warmth radiating from his sweaty body displaced the cold, stale air of the unventilated corridor. The heavy soles of his leather boots slapped against the wooden flooring. They made a loud screech as Goro lost his balance. Sensing an opportunity to incapacitate him for good, Kota gave him a quick kick to the ankles. With a push to his shoulders, he toppled him over and sent him flying towards the door. Goro’s dense body broke through the wood. It shattered and dropped him to the ground.

“What’s going on there?” Otohiko approached from behind, his modified school uniform now matched with a crude looking cap fashioned out of mismatched scraps of fabric. Two of his followers stood beside him carrying wooden torches. The light cast a harsh shine against his oily skin. 

“He came straight at me.” Kota said. More of Otohiko’s followers stepped into the light of the torch. “He tripped over as I was trying to run away.” Tsuguhiro stepped forward. His supple skin shone in the light of the torch. The belt of his imperialist uniform ate into his round stomach. His loose black slacks hung over his thighs. Insignias and slogans covered his chest and arms. The contours of his biceps warped the strokes of the characters, rendering their meaning incomprehensible.

“You went too far.” Otohiko said, uncovering Goro from out of the rubble. “Look how much pain he’s in.”

“What do you expect?” Futsujiro asked. “He’s been stalking us for weeks, then he attacks Kota. He shouldn’t be allowed to attack whomever he wants whenever the mood strikes him.”

“I shall not let you slander him. I can only assume that you must have done something heinous to provoke a peace-loving Yamato brother.”

“Peace-loving? I think the people he hospitalized would beg to differ.”

“As if I care what a bunch of communists have to say.” Tsuguhiro helped Goro up from the ground. He wrapped his arm around his back to support him while they walked. Tsuguhiro’s ass ballooned out of his slacks. Kota clenched his fists. It was the only way he could have kept himself from grabbing onto it. Even fascist regalia wasn’t enough to keep him away. Tsuguhiro followed Otohiko and the others to the end of the hallway.

The hallway went quiet with their departure. The rest of badminton team soon emerged from the darkness, grateful to see Futsujiro safe. They carried their equipment to the gym, eager to start practice. Kota parted ways with them and headed back to his dorm. He grabbed his towel and got ready for a bath.


	20. Stupid Sexy Nazis Part Four

The door to the bathroom wobbled as Kota slid it open. He took off his slippers and placed them on the shoe rack. The changing room’s retro aesthetic featured tatami mats and woven baskets resting on bamboo racks. Kota turned over one of the baskets. He got undressed and placed his clothing in it. His underwear tugged against his erect penis as he removed them. It sprung forward before snapping back and slapping him across the stomach. He peered through the steamy windows. Two students sat chatting in the baths. Kota examined the rules posted by the door. He read them in detail, hoping that it would take his mind off Tsuguhiro, but it was of no help. The other students still showed no signs of leaving. Kota clasped his towel to his groin and braved the bathroom.

He opened the doors, releasing a cloud of steam into the cold changing room. Mold covered the surface of the floor. Puddles of water sank into the gaps between the cracked and missing tiles, kept away only by a crude coating of water proofing solution. Kota took a seat at the unoccupied wash station. Splashes of dried soap caked over the stools, leftover from the evening rush a few hours earlier. The running water from the tap drowned out the gossiping students. Kota lathered himself up and rinsed the soap away. Conscious of his still erect penis, he stuck it under the cold water tap. His body shook as the cold water dripped down his legs. Even as his nerves grew numb, it showed no signs of waning.

Eager to get it over with and get to sleep, he walked over to the bath and sat at the edge, making sure to put a safe distance between himself and the other two students. While they continued their chattering, he stretched his leg out behind him and rested his knee against the edge. He peered over at the two other students. They were still chattering and appeared unaware of his presence. Kota lowered himself in to the bath backwards and twisted his body around. He dropped in with a splash. The water overflowed and ran down the drain. He checked on the other students to find them staring at him with their mouths agape. They remained silent for a few moments before exchanging whispers. Kota turned away from them. His aching muscles needed a long soak. He closed his eyes and sank into the water. His shoulders tensed up. He could feel their judgmental stares even as they were blocked from view. He got out of the bath, taking great care to to position his thighs carefully enough to keep him from being exposed. 

He patted himself dry. After getting dressed, he returned to his room barely more refreshed than when he left. It had all been a massive failure. He had started to distance himself from Tsuguhiro, but it had only taken one chance encounter for him to fall for him once more. He rubbed his dry eyes and crawled into his futon. His desire for Tsuguhiro kept him awake long into the night. Although tempted to put an end to it, tissues were a luxury in his post-industrialist, environmental disaster stricken society, pricing the likes of him out of the market for this now expensive hobby. He laid in bed hoping his crippling fatigue would soon overpower his sex drive.


	21. Stupid Sexy Nazis Part Five

Kota awoke in the open air. The calm summer breeze refreshed his tired eyes. A bronze column sprouted from the ground ahead of him. He walked towards it through the silhouette townscape. Under the moonlight, he recognized the serene turquoise structure as the July Column of the Place de la Bastille. He approached it to examine it in fine detail. The turquoise structure rested on a pedestal built from pure white marble.

An arm grabbed Kota by his chest. The unseen figure kissed the back of his neck. Their long purple hair trailed over his shoulders. Kota turned to find Tsuguhiro dressed in an SS overcoat. The moonlight bounced off the silver emblem on his cap. Tsuguhiro loosened his buckles. The overcoat fell from his slender body to reveal his tight-fitting brown shirt. He pushed Kota up against the pedestal and leaned in to kiss him. Kota squirmed, but he soon gave in. He unbuttoned the twink’s shirt and ran his hands over his gentle skin. The shirt fell to his round hips. After removing his belt, his black slacks dropped to his ankles. Kota ran his lips over his smooth neck. The twink took hold of him. 

Otohiko’s motivations weren’t as harmless as some suggested. He believed in restoring absolute authority by any means possible. Simply siding with him had made Tsuguhiro a threat, yet he seemed so tender and helpless when he held his slender frame in his arms.

Tsuguhiro’s hands reached for Kota’s groin. He worked it loose. Kota could sense his sudden hunger. It was the way his hands moved over his body uninhibited, the sense of certainty with which he unrolled the condom, the consistent rhythm he maintained throughout. Kota’s back collapsed against the pedestal as they finished. He opened his eyes to find Tsuguhiro missing. He took a look around his surroundings, but he was nowhere to be found.

“You’ve made a grave mistake, comrade.”

An elderly man stood in the moonlight. His round glasses enlarged his crossed eyes. His bow-tie hung over his chest. He carried a bucket in one hand. He dipped his other hand into it and took out a piece of chicken. 

“A very grave mistake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be taking a month's break from uploading new scenes. As this chapter finishes the first arc of the story I've planned out, it felt like a good time to take a break. I never expected many people to read an LGBT themed leftist satire, so I really appreciate anyone who has taken the time to read it


	22. The Left will Emasculate You Part One

“You have fallen for the enemy.”

Kota stared at the mysterious man. “Erm ... have we met?”

The mysterious man dropped the bones of his fried chicken into his bucket and wiped the grease from his mouth. “It is I, your comrade, Leon Trotsky.” He raised his head up from his bucket. He froze in place. His face turned red. He dropped his head and stared down at the ground.

Kota looked down to find that he was still naked from his encounter with Tsuguhiro. He once again appeared to be dreaming about being naked in front of a 19th century revolutionary. He could still vividly recall Rosa Luxemburg slapping him across the face before she ran away screaming. Emma Goldman, on the other hand, was much more laid back. Trotsky’s reaction seemed to be somewhere in between. 

“Your infatuation can only end in violence.” Trotsky said. “The bourgeoisie will willingly leave the school’s fascist elements to fester.”

A portly man approached from the darkness. “Good evening comrades.” He wore boxer shorts and an oversized t-shirt. The unkempt kinks of his brown hair spread across his forehead. “How come no one told me about the seminar.” The black and red scarf he wore around his face muffled his words. He came to a stop upon seeing Kota. His eyes scanned across his naked body. “I didn’t realize it was going to be that kind of seminar.”

“And who are you?” Kota asked.

“No need to worry about me. I’m just a time traveling pervert.”

“I would pay him no attention.” Trotsky said. “He more than anyone else needs to learn that sexual relations with Nazis will end in spilled blood.”

The time traveller let out a laugh. “I don’t sleep with Nazis. Don’t you know the Nazi party was dissolved in 1945?”

“I heard that you enjoy raping Nazis.”

“Typical leftist, you think everyone I want to sleep with is a fascist. I’m actually attracted to race realist, white nationalists.” The time traveller placed his hand on Kota’s shoulder. “Anyway, there’s a reason we’re all here. This old tankie here is going to try and talk you out of approaching Tsuguhiro, but I’ve come to let you know that theory has progressed in the decades since his sudden demise. You have read theory, haven’t you?”

“Oh ... theory. Yes, I’ve read plenty of it. All of it.”

“Well then, maybe I’m just wasting your time, but if you haven’t read it already, feel free to take a copy of my book.” He placed the book in Kota’s hands. Moisture sank into his fingertips. A musty smell rose from its pages. He took a look at the front cover.

Fascism  
What it is and how to Fuck it

“Thanks.” Kota said. He opened it, releasing a salty mist into the air. A sticky substance held its pages together in clumps. He flashed a strained smile. “Erm ... I’ll read it later.”

Trotsky wiped the grease from his mouth with a napkin. “I wouldn’t dedicate even a second of my time to comprehending the works of this identity politics obsessed lifestylist.”

The time traveler clenched his fist. “Identity politics? I know what you’re referring to, and I’m not gay. I’ve made love to zero men. I’ve simply ravaged a hundred Nazis.”

Trotsky raised his eyebrows and flashed a smug smile. “So you admit that you have sex with Nazis.”

The time travelers cheeks turned red. “Yes, whatever.” He shook his head. “I don’t care.”

Trotsky chuckled. “So now, let’s consider your best course of action from here on.”The smirk disappeared from his face as he addressed Kota. “The fascists are growing in strength and numbers. If you do nothing to combat them, who will? What are you going to do to protect your fellow students?”

Kota shrugged. “They’ll be fine. I’m more worried about myself. I’m the one who still has two active investigations open on them.”

“Then you shall fail. One can never hope to defeat fascism without organization.”

“I hate to to admit it, but the tankie is right for once.” the time traveler said. “You won’t go far without the help of your comrades.”

“As the most class conscious student at your school, you must lead your students as a revolutionary vanguard.” Trotsky said.

The time travel shook his head. “Fuck that. What you need is horizontal power structures. The emancipation of the working class must be an act of the working class.”

“Anarchism never works. They cannot survive outside pressure.”

The time traveler shook violently. “The Free Territory of Ukraine were doing perfectly well until you interfered.” He held out his strained hands. “Do you ever wonder why no one likes you? Leninists hate you. We anarchists hate you for what you did to Makhno. That seems to be the only thing we can all agree on.”

“Makhno lead a futile experiment that was destined for failure.”

The time traveler pushed his face against Trotsky’s. The old man appeared unaffected by the invasion of his private space. “Shut the fuck up, or else I’m breaking out the ice pick.” the time traveler said.

Trotsky grinded his teeth together. “I see. So now you’re the one who’s siding with authoritarians. The integrity of the ‘libertarian’ left never ceases to amaze me. I’d have half a mind to settle this like a gentleman.”

“Go ahead Trotsky. I’d like to see you fucking try.”

Trotsky’s hands went straight for the time travelers face. He clenched it down, squashing his cheeks and eyelids together. The time traveler retaliated and sank his fingers into the old man’s mouth. He pulled his lips down against his chin. He tugged on his hair with his other hand. They exchanged pokes and noogies. Kota stepped away. “I guess I’ll get going then. Thanks for the book.” They wouldn’t have lasted a day at his school.


	23. The Left will Emasculate You Part Two

A pool of liquid formed around Kota’s stomach. He pushed his bed cover away and tore off his robe. The semen trickled down his hips. He rolled up his underwear and scrubbed it against his stomach. With the leakage mopped up, he put on his uniform and stepped out into the dorm. Being careful not to wake the others, he tiptoed towards the door and peered out into the hallway. He made his way to the restroom. The school handled everyone’s laundry, and he couldn’t afford to pay the fine for semen stained underwear. Fines for urine and fecal stains however were curiously absent. After washing them out, he returned to his room and hung them up to dry.

Kota took a moment to consider what significance, if any, the previous nights dream held. Maybe he should have known better than to search for meaning in a mere dream, but he could not deny that the fascist were growing in strength and numbers. The badminton club was unlikely to survive another encounter with Goro. With so many students displaced from their clubs, perhaps they could all come together to build an even bigger club. But what exactly would they do? Kota immediately ruled out sports. They had all attracted unwanted attention from Goro. It had to be an activity with a low bar of entry. The teachers would be observing them carefully, and would expect nothing less than one hundred percent participation from its members.

Short on ideas, he grabbed his mobile device from his pocket. Hidden away in a folder of unauthorized applications was an archive of videos from the previous century. He browsed the videos for new ideas. Among the multitude of sports, he found less physically taxing activities, such as handicrafts and brass band. He dismissed them as viable ideas, as he could never have hoped to convince the school or the other student’s to provide the club with such expensive art supplies or musical instruments. Just as he was about to quit, his eyes were drawn to an unusual video featuring an activity he had never heard of. He tapped on the icon, which featured a group of people in a synchronized pose. The video played. Hundreds of people stood in a stadium. They stepped from side to side in time with the music. Their arms flowed in perfect unity. Both men and women dotted the venue, sporting a variety of clothing styles from business wear, to luxury fashion and street wear. The customers represented a wide range of ages. Among the many different figures were heavyset men and curvy women, who moved with the same grace and swiftness as the toned bodied guys and petite girls who surrounded them. The camera panned to a closeup of one of the chubby guys. He kept pace with the others, even as the towel around his neck became drenched in sweat.

Kota closed the video down. Although intrigued, he needed to do more research before making a final decision. Convincing the teachers to authorize a new club would be a test of anyone’s negotiating skills. He loaded up a mirrored encyclopedia and searched for more details. Everything seemed to good to be true. A decadent pastime invented at the height of Japan’s bubble economy. A flashy display of opulence, yet simultaneously an activity enjoyed by the working class. 

The sound of creaking doors swept in from the hallways. Kota got up and made his way to the classroom. Shigino-sensei sat in the corner of the classroom, resting his head against the wall. Kota sat down and went over the details as he waited for the class to start. Just as he started to form a convincing proposal, the bell rang, and Shigino-sensei began his lecture. He gave a talk about agricultural science. He introduced a pesticide used in the production of the school’s food. He boasted that it was so gentle on the human digestive system that they had been stockpiling it to use as an emergency water supply. Kota went back to formulating a plan for the new club. He considered the principal’s most likely objections and set out his own counter-arguments. Although he would never approve of late night dancing, the principal would certainly approve of the economic circumstances surrounding it. Appealing to the principal’s nostalgia for twentieth-century neo-liberalism and Japan’s bubble economy was his best chance at success.

The bell rang as Kota’s proposal began to take shape. He moved to the canteen and found a quiet space away from the others where he could make notes without distraction. He began to learn more about the state of Japan’s economy in the 1980’s. Although his knowledge of Japan’s golden age could never compete with the principal’s, proving that he had a sincere appreciation for its political culture would be essential to gaining the principal’s trust. Kota found himself all alone by the time he looked up from his mobile device, still only halfway through his article on the aftermath of the 80’s bubble economy. He ran back down to class to be greeted by a stern look from the afternoon’s guest lecturer.

The lecturer went on to teach the students about taxation— a burden on the people that had been justly abolished. Kota had to physically restrain himself from lashing out at his classmates as he learned about the time when the lazy and ungrateful could spend a month unemployed without losing their homes or spiraling into crippling debt. He could not imagine being a part of such an irresponsible generation. He made a note— “Taxation BAD!”.

Kota went back to reviewing the article he read. Japan’s clubbing scene emerged against a backdrop of deregulation and integration into global, neo-liberal capitalism. Japan had found itself in this privileged position due to their strong links with the USA, which rewarded them for their loyalty in combating soviet socialism. With a solid foundation for his proposal taking shape, he needed someone else to submit it for him. Due to his two open investigations, any request he were to make would surely be subject to greater scrutiny. He knocked on Futsujiro’s door. Although he almost certainly still felt attached to the badminton club, Kota planned to convince him that a new club would benefit them all. He waited for a minute before he gave up on getting a response. He left the dorm and headed downstairs to look for him.


	24. The Left will Emasculate You Part Three

Futsujiro juggled the shuttlecock with his racket. Eager to make up for lost time, he came down to the equipment room early to get some more practice. Unfortunately, the other members of the club didn’t seem to share his enthusiasm. The light from the overused bulb flickered. Steel racks aligned the room’s shed-like interior. Spare rackets and tubes of shuttlecocks laid across the shelves. 

“I bet you weren’t expecting to find me here today.” Futsujiro dropped his racket. “You must have many questions. Take a look if you dare. It made the rest of your club run off screaming like a bunch of little girls.”

Mechanical hands extended out from Goro’s bandaged arm, reaching down to his knees. A metallic nose covered his own. “I didn’t have to miss a single day of school/work thanks to Kenko Daimax.” he said slowly, nodding his head along as he enunciated each word. “Trained medical professionals treated my wounds. The cybernetics team created temporary augmentations to shield my injured body.” He clenched his teeth together and grinned. “And now I’m going to finish you off.” 

He lunged forward. His cold hands squeezed against Futsujiro’s shoulders. He picked him up and hung him against a hook. The metal fingers ripped through Futsujiro’s sleeves. Futsujiro squirmed, but failed to work himself free. Goro’s fists pounded into the poor badminton players stomach. Futsujiro shook as the pain swept through him. Goro scraped his fingers across Futsujiro’s neck. They cut into his rough skin. He looked Futsujiro in the eyes and gripped them around his neck.

A man walked past the entrance clutching a bunch of flowers. Futsujiro called out for help. The impatient man turn around and dismissed his plea. “Well, I heard that you were the one that gave him those injuries in the first place. I’m not going to stop him from defending himself.” Futsujiro coughed up blood. “Fight him off if you’re so worried about him. Why are you so scared to take personal responsibility?” Goro’s metallic fingers pierced his skin. Warm blood flowed down his neck. “You know what your problem is, you want everyone to be equally weak. Why can’t you accept that some people are just better and stronger than others?” Goro tightened his grip. A splash of blood splurted out onto his face. “It’s all because you’ve spent so much time with the leftist friend of yours.” The room grew blurry. “The left will emasculate you, by pouring soy milk into every orifice on your body, and ejaculating onto your freshly grown, tender breasts.” Futsujiro’s back hit the wall. The sensation of Goro gripping his fingers around his neck faded away. His collar ripped from the shift in pressure, dropping him to the ground. His eyes fell closed.

“Why’d you got to bring the gay shit into this?” Goro asked.

“It’s not gay.” the man squealed. “That’s what they do.” Futsujiro grabbed his gaping wound. The blood continued to gush out. He went lightheaded. “What are you doing with my arm? Let go of me. I have sources.”


	25. The Left will Emasculate You Part Four

Kota rested his head against the pillow. The wooden flooring pushed against his back. He snap back to life as he heard a knock on the door. He got up to answer it, leaving Deku to his book. Futsujiro’s unconscious body lay on his futon, resting on towels placed under him to stop his blood from sinking into his sheets. Bandages around his neck kept the bleeding at bay. He opened the door. Yosuke stood there holding the note Kota had left him. He let him in and lied back down. Yosuke stood over Futsujiro, observing his injuries. He took a seat. Kota’s eyelids began to fall. Deku gave him a gentle push. Futsujiro had begun to stir. Upon awakening, his hands went straight for his neck. “How are you feeling?” Kota asked.

“It still hurts.” Futsujiro answered. “How did I get back up here?” He asked.

“I found you lying across the floor as I was wondering the hallway.” Kota answered. “I went to find Deku, since he’s so good with first aid.” Futsujiro thanked them and settled back into bed. “So now that we’re all here, we need to talk.” Yosuke ruffled his eyebrows. “Two of you have been attacked so far this year. Goro is becoming unstoppable, and if he manages to close down anymore clubs, he’ll be able to take us out one by one.”

“So what are you suggesting?” Yosuke asked.

“I say we all band together to start a new club. With all of us together, Goro won’t be able to touch us.”

“We should just leave Goro for the teachers to deal with.” Futsujiro said. “He’s been seriously pushing his luck.”

“We can’t wait for the teachers to step in. His sponsors love him. They all want to be associated with the school’s bad boy. His health care sponsor alone would raise hell if he were ever disciplined.”

“They can’t keep letting him fight whomever he likes. They’re going to have to step in eventually.” Futsujiro said.

“As long as he’s good for business, his sponsors will turn a blind eye to everything he does. The school can’t do anything about that. They never liked him anyway.”

“That’s quite right.” Deku said, turning through the pages of his book. “They didn’t show any concern for Yosuke when he was hospitalized.” His eyes continued to scan the lines of his book. “I wouldn’t expect them to change anytime soon.”

Futsujiro yawned. He clenched his gaping mouth shut and clutched his neck in pain.

“It’s getting late. We’ll talk about this tomorrow. Let’s meet in the common room after dinner.” Kota and the others left Futsujiro to rest.


End file.
